


Carterhaugh

by story_monger



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ballad 39: Tam Lin, Fairy Tale Elements, M/M, Magical Realism, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-11 12:49:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 30,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8980372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/story_monger/pseuds/story_monger
Summary: When Sam leaves his dad and brother, he expects to spend a few weeks working his way across the country to California and the full ride to Stanford that waits for him. He's not expecting to stumble into a strange place called Carterhaugh County, and he's not expecting to accidentally trap himself there with a man named Castiel, who as it turns out, isn't a human at all.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Done for the 2016 [Sastiel Big Bang](http://sastiel-bigbang.livejournal.com/).
> 
> Many, many thanks to my wonderful and insanely talented artist, [quickreaver](http://quickreaver.livejournal.com/), who was incredibly chill when I said I wanted to start over with a new fic about a month before posting started. [Please go look](http://quickreaver.livejournal.com/148690.html) at the gorgeous, gorgeous art and leave lots of love!
> 
> Also thanks to my lovely beta, [gatorgurl94](http://gatorgurl94.livejournal.com/)! And thanks too to [askance](http://steeplechasers.livejournal.com/), who read a very early version of this fic over a year ago and offered suggestions that helped immensely when I finally came around to rewriting it.

 

 

> "O' I forbid you, maidens a',
> 
> That wear gowd on your hair,
> 
> To come or gae by Carterhaugh,
> 
> For young Tam Lin is there."
> 
> ~ Opening verse of _Tam Lin,_ Child Ballad 39A

 

Sam first hears about Carterhaugh in Bobby’s house, under the stairs with Dean, while Bobby and Dad sit at the kitchen table with sweating beers and an ocean of papers. The pale light from the kitchen smears across the old wooden floors polished by decades of foot traffic, just glancing off of the shadowy corner where Dean and Sam have sequestered themselves with piles of Bobby’s old comic books. Sam is working on a Spiderman arc. He’s laying on his stomach with a pillow under his chest, slowly turning the brittle, yellow pages. His legs are sprawled across Dean’s lap, who’s sitting propped against the wall with X-Men. In the kitchen, the men talk in low voices interspersed with the sound of paper shuffling and beer bottles _tump-_ ing against the pitted tabletop. Sam turns a page and, somewhere in the corner of his mind, considers that this is one of those truly, deeply happy moments.

“Carterhaugh,” Dad says. “She kept telling me to go to Carterhaugh. Nothing like that around here, though. I’ve checked the damn map three times.”

“Carterhaugh,” Bobby echoes. Wood scrapes against wood. Sam glances up to find that Bobby has pushed away from the table slightly, gaze heavy.

“You know it?” Dad asks.

“Heard of it,” Bobby replies, still looking troubled. “Figure most hunters hear the name sooner or later.”

“Well?”

Bobby grunts and runs a hand over his mouth and chin. “It’s a real place. In Scotland. It’s tied up in a lot of the faerie lore.”

A beat of silence. Sam hasn’t dropped his gaze to his comic book yet.

“You suggesting I’m dealing with fairies?” his dad asks, voice starting to warm with humor.

“Not what I’m saying,” Bobby says, gruff. “I’m saying the name Carterhaugh _means_ something. It’s…I think it’s like a name for the meeting places between people and things that _aren’t_ people. It’s the place between our world and other worlds.”

“Other worlds? Like what? Hell?”

“Dunno, honestly.” Bobby sighs and leans on the table on crossed arms. “It’s just…Carterhaugh exists. I’ve talked to hunters who have seen it, even a few who have gone into it.”

“Into what?”

“Varies. Sometimes it’s a forest, a small town. Things run differently there; you can get in trouble if you’re not ready for it.” Bobby pauses, seems to choose his next words carefully. “Things live there that can persuade you to stay with them. You’ve heard of faerie hills, right? Like that. You eat their food, drink their water, you accidentally stay for decades. It’s happened.” John’s face is strung between incredulous and curious. He leans back in his chair and takes a contemplative swig of beer. “You don’t believe me,” Bobby growls.

“Singer, at this point, I’d be a damn idiot not to believe you.” John sets the beer back on the table. “Okay. So, I shouldn’t go into Carterhaugh even if I could find it. Which I can’t. Strike that as a dead end. What else?” The men bend over their papers again. Sam twists around to see if Dean was listening, but he’s bent over his comic book, attention riveted. Sam turns back around slowly and starts to read again.

***

It’s eleven years before Sam encounters the word Carterhaugh again. When it happens, he’s 550 miles from the bus station where Dean dropped him off. It’s almost twilight, and Sam’s standing just outside the entrance of the current bus station looking out over a gravel lot, a thin chain-link fence, and then a quilt of fields buried under winter wheat. The wind sifting through his greasy hair is damp with recent rain; it soughs through the wheat. His ears still ring with his dad telling him to never come back. His arms still hurt with how hard he grasped at Dean before he boarded the bus. His backpack is too light with how quickly he had to pack.

“You got a ride somewhere?”

Sam turns, and a middle-aged man he saw working behind the ticket counter a few minutes ago is looking at him. He has a cigarette between swollen knuckles.

“Not really,” Sam says truthfully. “I only had enough money to get to this station.”

“Where you headed?”

“California.”

The man whistles. “You got a ways to go,” he says.

“I know.” Sam shifts, his boots grinding into the pavement. “Is there anywhere to stay around here?”

“Hotel down the road.” The man gestures with the glowing butt of his cigarette. “Not a bad place. I know the manager; she’s a good egg.”

“Anything else?”

The man looks at him sideways. “If you really want to go around knocking on doors and asking for free room and board, I guess that’s your prerogative.”

“I’d work in exchange,” Sam says, and he does his best to keep his tone neutral. The man shrugs and takes a drag from his cigarette. Sam mumbles something like a thanks. He shrugs the backpack higher on his shoulders and walks down to the gate, gravel crunching under his boots. The bus station is on the very edge of town; to his right sits the scattering of buildings that make up the rest of the town. To his left is the highway and farmland. Sam goes left.

Twilight deepens around him, and on either side, the winter wheat dissolves into rustling shadows. Cars whip past every few minutes, and they light up Sam’s ratty gym shoes. Sam doesn’t stick out a thumb, and the cars don’t slow for him. He’s had enough of sitting for a while; he wants to walk so far and long that his legs hurt. He keeps on the road’s shoulder, navigating discarded beer bottles and occasional road kill. The only sounds are rushes: his own rush of breath, the rush of wind through cover crop, the rush of cars along the road.

When Sam approaches the highway sign, he slows and tilts his head up to squint at the reflecting lettering.

 _Carterhaugh County_ , the sign says. Sam pauses, and then for a moment he’s underneath warm stairs listening to Bobby and Dad talk at the kitchen table. He takes a step back and looks around, but the farmland is as regular as ever. The fields sweep past the county line without trouble; the road is a smooth river of black. Sam peers up at the sign again. _Carterhaugh County_ , it says again.

He licks his lips but in the end steps past the sign. Nothing happens, and he keeps following the fields.

It’s sometime around midnight when the car—the first in nearly an hour—slows alongside him. Sam stiffens and keeps walking. The car rumbles alongside him, headlights blinding. A window rolls down.

“You shouldn’t be walking out here by yourself,” a voice says. It’s male. British. Sam turns his head despite himself and sees a round-faced man with dark hair and a wholly disconcerting smile. He’s ducking his head to see Sam through his passenger window.

“I’m fine,” Sam says.

“You won’t be sooner or later,” the man says. “Come on, can I get you somewhere?”

“No.”

“I really do insist. The next town is going to take you hours to reach.” Sam glances over, rolling in his lips. If worst comes to worst, he has a knife strapped to his belt and hidden by his jacket. He stops walking. The man grins and brakes; the car door clicks unlocked. Sam clambers inside and places his backpack between his knees while the man revs the car forward.

“McCloud.” The man reaches out a hand. Sam accepts it.

“Sam,” he replies.

“Good name.”

“Thanks.”

They drive in silence, and Sam watches farmhouses and silos blur past.

“Where you headed, then?” McCloud asks.

“California eventually, but first I’m going to need some work.” Sam shrugs. “Bus tickets get expensive.”

“Indeed,” McCloud says, and Sam can’t help but get the impression that McCloud’s experience with bus tickets is secondary at best. Sam pretends to shift in his seat so he can check that the knife is easily accessible.

“You live around here?” Sam asks.

“No, but I pass through quite a bit,” McCloud replies. “I know the area.”

“What’s it like?” Sam asks.

“Oh, you know,” McCloud says and doesn’t continue. Sam doesn’t know, but he doesn’t push the topic. He stares through the front windshield and keeps a firm grip on his backpack.

“Guess there were a lot of Scottish immigrants in the day,” he says. McCloud’s head jerks slightly in his direction.

“Makes you say that?” he asks.

“Carterhaugh. It’s in Scotland.”

McCloud laughs, short and sharp. “Smart one,” he says. “Yes, the name is Scottish. Home of Tam Lin.” Sam is silent, trying to remember if the name is familiar. “Know it?” McCloud presses.

“No.”

“Old ballad. A girl mustn’t let go of her true love while he turns into all manner of beasts, else he’s claimed by the fair folk.” Some old memory stirs in Sam’s mind, but it’s lost before he can claim it.

“Oh,” is all he says, and he tightens his grip on the backpack.

“I guess it’s a faerie tale in the truest sense of the word,” McCloud continues. “Americans bandy faerie tales around like it’s nothing. Back where I come from, you’re more careful with that kind of attitude.” He peers at Sam. “There’s certain hills you just don’t cross at night. Certain stones you leave alone. You see?” Sam nods. “Christianity came along and did a number on all that, sure,” McCloud says. “But it’s not like they could erase the fair folk. Not like the fair folk don’t know how to adapt.”

“Hm.”

“Not a chatty one, are you?”

“Just tired.”

The minutes pass silently, and Sam can see McCloud glance at him a few times, but he doesn’t push conversation.

After nearly forty-five minutes of driving, McCloud pulls into a sodium-lit gas station that, along with a handful of ramshackle buildings, seems to be the only indication that a town exists in that spot. Sam emerges from the car and stretches his back. He gazes around him.

“Want anything?” McCloud asks. Sam glances back to find him jerking a thumb at the convenience store.

“No.” Sam hesitates and continues, “Are we still in Carterhaugh?”

“Indeed.”

“How long are we going to be in it?”

McCloud gives Sam a wry look. “As long as we need to be.” Sam nods and shifts from foot to foot.

“Listen,” he says. “Thanks for the ride, but I think I’m going to go back to walking.”

“That would be a monumentally stupid thing to do,” McCloud says mildly. “There’s nothing out here.”

“Still.” Sam hikes the backpack straps higher up his shoulders. “Thanks again.” McCloud examines him lazily for several seconds then shrugs.

“Luck to you,” he says.

“Thanks.”

Sam turns and starts walking, leaving the orange glow of the station for the velvet darkness of the highway. When he glances back, he can see McCloud still watching him from beside his car.

The highway becomes less and less a highway and more into a spindly country road. The next time Sam turns around, the gas station is a mere speck in the distance. A fresh breeze picks up, and Sam crosses his arms over his chest. He ducks his head and keeps walking.

He loses track of how long he travels like that, head bowed and eyes fixed on his shoes scuffing across the pavement. At some point, his shoulders and upper back develop a deep ache that twinges every time he shifts the backpack straps. Eventually, he pauses to fish a water bottle from the backpack’s front pocket, and that’s when he catches sight of the pale gray sky and realizes it’s almost dawn. He takes three careful sips of the water and moves to place it back in his backpack when his eyes catch on a burst of muted yellow. He lifts his head and realizes he’s standing alongside a fence, and beyond the fence is a field of sunflowers. He freezes, blinking at the crowd of wide, brown faces framed in yellow. A breeze moves past them, making the flower heads bow and murmur like a crowd of curious onlookers. Sam settles the water bottle into the backpack and straightens, eyes fixed on the sunflowers. He glances up and down the road. The fence—a simple rough wooden affair—extends in either direction as far as he can see. Sam turns, and the land on the other side of the road has the same fence along it, and it too is swathed in flowers. Tulips. Thick swatches of yellow, then red, then orange, then yellow again. Sam realizes that his breath is caught in his throat. He wonders, a little wildly, how he could have missed this.

Sam turns forward again, and when he begins walking, he lets himself move so slowly it could be called meandering. He looks from side to side, watching the flowers pass in riots of color dulled by the pre-dawn light. On his right, the sunflowers eventually turn into a field of lavender. On his left, the tulips become daffodils.

It occurs to him it’s only February—although it doesn’t feel like February at the moment; if Sam didn’t know better he’d say that the breeze against his face is damp and green with spring—and that no one should be growing this many flowers outside of a greenhouse this time of year. His gut shifts uneasily, but there’s nothing to do about it but keep walking.

He comes across the gate after another ten minutes, and by then the sky is stained with the first pink blush. Sam slows then stops completely, swaying in the middle of the road, examining the simple rusted metal gate that stretches across a gravel driveway. He can see the driveway snake past the fields of flowers and disappear behind a thick copse of trees. He imagines he can see the outline of a house in the trees. Sam examines the gate. It’s low, unimpressive; he could scale it in a matter of seconds.

Sam could imagine, theoretically, that this property must be a flower farm with a steady flow of tourists. If Sam had gone to the motel, he would probably have seen a brochure next to the front desk with a full-color image of fields of daffodils with families strolling between beds. Sam can imagine that the farm will open to the public in a few hours, and that the owners are already awake, and it wouldn’t be too much trouble to ask them where the next town is and how far he still needs to travel. Sam tells himself all this as he tosses his backpack over the gate then clambers over. The metal clangs with his movements, but no one emerges to shout at him. Not even a dog’s bark breaks the dawn air.

Sam slowly picks up his backpack, dusts it off, and slings it over one shoulder. He glances at the rows of lilacs alongside him; they bob their heads back. Sam makes his way down the gravel driveway. The air, he realizes after a moment, is thick here. It’s like a snowy winter day when the snow muffles any sound, except the air smells like spring. The only sound, it seems, is Sam’s sneakers crackling against the gravel and his breathing whistling through his nose. He turns impulsively to check behind him, but the driveway is empty.

The driveway makes a wide swing, and Sam realizes that the thick copse of trees is an orchard. He passes gnarled apple trees, low bushy peach trees, stout pear trees. Each branch practically drips with globules of round, ripe fruit. The smell of the fruit is intoxicating, and Sam’s mouth becomes heavy with saliva. At one point, almost foggily, he stops and plucks a plum the color of early nightfall from a nearby branch. He presses his nose and lips to the firm, cool skin and inhales. He hasn’t eaten in well over a day. He bites into the flesh and the juice is almost warm when it bursts over his lower lips and chin. He eats the plum slightly bowed so the juice drips into the dewy grass. When he’s finished, he licks the sweetness from his fingers and drags his jacket sleeve across his mouth. He drops the plum’s pit into his pocket, planning to offer a dollar or two to the property owner for what he took. He’s certain now; people must come here to wander the flowerbeds and to pick their own fruit. He avoids the fact that peak flowering season and peak fruiting season are months apart.

The driveway bends again, and Sam inhales at the sight of a house. It’s made of red brick with wrought iron filigree along its windows and a bright white trim along a slate-gray roof. It’s comfortably large without being ostentatious. In front of the house, like the folds of a magnificent dress, sits a garden.

It’s not like the rows of flowers near the road. This is haphazard beds filled with so many different types of flowers, Sam isn’t sure all of them have names. Tall, short, bright, dark, veined, spotted, fleshy, delicate. It smells like the greenhouse Sam once went to for a class field trip, and even in the dim light, the sheer mix of colors is borderline overwhelming. But the farther Sam pushes into the garden, the more he realizes that roses are the garden’s mainstay. They appear in almost every bed, in almost every color and state of bloom. Their scent is what dominates the air, and it’s sweet, pervasive, and Sam feels a small headache push against his skull.

He follows the strips of grass that wind between the beds, and the dew dampens his tennis shoes. The sun has begun to push over the horizon, and in its pale pink light, Sam sees a stone structure rising above the garden. It’s almost completely drowned in roses; red roses thick with full bloom. Sam slows the nearer he draws to the stone building until he stops completely, swaying a little in the breeze that is heavy with pollen. The structure reminds Sam of a gazebo or a pagoda. It’s about as tall as a shed and has four openings, one in each cardinal direction. Sam can see more greenery inside, and after a moment of consideration, steps into one of the openings.

The space is immediately damp and cool. Sam examines the nearest wall. Under the thick green of twining rose stems, he can see bricks of pale stone covered in lichen and moss. Sam reaches past the rose thorns to press the pads of his fingers against the stone; he can feel the coolness seep off of them. He lifts his head and is promptly splashed in the eye with a falling drop of water. He wipes at his eye and peers up to find the ceiling hanging over him, dim and swathed in moss and ivy. He looks forward again. In the center of the structure is something like a statue, but it’s drenched in roses, and at best Sam can tell that the figure is humanoid. Sam ventures forward. When he reaches the statue, he reaches out to push aside a cluster of twining rose stems, and he sees a glimpse of a face, but it’s not quite right and—

“What are you doing?”

Sam flinches; the movement makes his right index finger catch on a thorn. A bead of red wells across the skin, and Sam buries the finger in a fist as he whirls around. The light outside has grown enough that, for a moment, the figure standing at the entrance is silhouetted. Another moment, and Sam can see that it’s a man in large trench coat, his hands resting almost casually in the pockets. He has dark, messy hair and painfully blue eyes that are fixed on Sam.

“I—sorry.” Sam steps away from the statue; he can feel the pricked finger pulsing. “I shouldn’t have—I was looking for a phone.”

He hadn’t been looking for a phone at all. Sam gets an irrational sense that the man knows this. The man, for his part, inclines his head slightly.

“I’m afraid there are no phones here,” he says. He speaks in a perfectly even, flat voice. It unnerves Sam enough to want to do something reckless like insult the man, just so he’ll tip over into anger. Instead, Sam nods.

“Okay,” he says. “How far is the next town?”

The man squints as if the question confuses him. “I assume if you walk far enough, you’ll run into one,” he says. “Is that all?”

“I—yeah.” Sam still doesn’t move. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to trespass.”

“Yet you still entered uninvited,” the man says mildly. Sam presses his lips together, face flushing.

“Sorry,” he repeats. “I’ll get going.”

The man doesn’t move, so Sam doesn’t move either. They stare at one another as water drips into Sam’s hair and trickles across his scalp. Then, slowly, the man steps back, his eyes never leaving Sam. Sam mumbles a thanks and ducks past him. He hurries down the damp strips of grass without looking behind him to see if the man is following. He doesn’t break into a run, but it’s a near thing. He moves at a brisk trot out of the garden, through the orchard, down the gravel driveway, and over the gate, which is still closed. He does start jogging once he reaches the road, and he still hasn’t checked behind him.

Sam only slows down once the gate has disappeared from view. He pants, examining his injured finger. It beads up when he loosens the pressure on it, so he buries it in a fist again. He looks around at the quiet rows of geraniums on one side and peonies on the other. It’s rows and rows of perfect blooms, no workers or equipment in sight, stretching as far as Sam can see. Unnatural. That’s the first thought in Sam’s head, and right on its tail is the deepening conviction that he shouldn’t have entered Carterhaugh. His dad would be smacking him for the sheer stupidity.

Sam groans and wipes a hand down his face, but he shoulders his backpack and starts walking again. That’s all he has, is walking.

The man’s property is massive, Sam decides, because the flowers keep coming. They cycle through species after species, some of which Sam knows, some he doesn’t. Eventually, he sees sunflowers on one side of the road again, tulips on the other. He picks up his pace, eager to return to the staid greenery of winter wheat. There aren’t even any silos present.

The sunflowers become lavendar; the tulips become daffodils. Sam breaks into a jog again. His chest is tightening. It releases in the form of a long groan when he sees a low metal gate across a gravel driveway. The sun is fully risen and throws the gate in unmistakable light. It could conceivably be another entrance into the property, but Sam can see the same winding driveway, the same copse of trees, the same outline of the house.

And this time, the man is waiting for him, standing just outside the gate, hands in his pockets. Sam slows until he’s a few feet from the man. His heart is threatening to burst from between his ribs.

The man looks him up and down, expression blank, almost bored. “You took something,” he says.

It hits Sam then, and he squeezes his eyes shut. It’s the first rule in the faerie tales, isn’t it? The first rule for anyone wandering into places like this. The plum pit is suddenly like a lead weight in his pocket. Persephone only ate three pomegranate seeds; Sam wonders what a whole plum costs.

The man is still watching him like he knows exactly what is going through Sam’s head and is merely waiting. Sam thrusts his hand into his pocket and pulls out the pit. He uses the hand with the pricked finger, and a slight smear of blood ends up on the pit. Sam offers it on his open palm.

“I was going to pay for it,” he says. “I forgot. Sorry.” The man’s mouth twitches at the edge in what might be the hint of a smile. “I have some money,” Sam continues. With his other hand, he pats at his pockets until he finds two crumpled bills. He holds them out to the man. The man doesn’t even glance at them.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and he almost sounds genuine. “That’s not worth much here.”

Sam swallows. “Then what is?”

The man tilts his head. “You can stay and work.”

Sam licks his lips and slowly stashes the money. “How long would I have to work?”

“As long as you need to.”

Sam almost snorts. It’s like every faerie story he’s heard of. “What, a year and a day?” he asks. The man tilts his head again. Sam clenches the plum pit hard enough to make its hard edges dig into his palm. “I’m not going to be able to leave until I pay for this, am I?” he says. The man shakes his head. Sam exhales hard. “Then I don’t really have a choice.”

“Humans always have choice,” the man says, and his tone is more animated than Sam has heard it yet. He sways toward Sam. “You possess that much.”

Sam stares at him. He licks his lips and says slowly, “Then, uh, my choice is to work.”

The man nods and turns away, pushing at the metal gate and starting down the gravel driveway. Sam follows, the plum pit still buried in his hand.

The second trip down the driveway feels longer and thicker than the one before. The man keeps a leisurely pace, and Sam takes care not to overtake him. The air stifles against his lungs, but it’s not with heat. They walk through the orchard, through the riotous garden, and Sam’s heart picks up pace when the man clacks open the red brick house’s front door. The wooden door groans open to reveal gray flagstones and a wide entry hall. The moment Sam steps into the house, he feels a rush and a chill settle over him, and it’s as if he’s plunged into a deep, cool lake. A shuffle comes from his right, and suddenly drapes are snapped open to reveal huge windows that let in the morning sunlight. It bathes the white plaster walls and flagstones in pale pink. A central stairway with dark wooden bannisters winds up to a second floor; on either side of the stairway, hallways disappear into dimness.

The man starts to walk down the left-hand hallway, and Sam hurries to follow. Before entering the hallway, the man presses on a small switch, and suddenly the hall is lit up by rows of sconces. Sam pauses by the first one. It’s electric; he can hear the low hum. But the bulb shape and the wires running up to the sconce makes him think the setup is a remnant from several decades past. He leaves it to keep up with the man, who is walking faster now. They pass rooms that resemble dining and sitting rooms before the man pushes open a small, wooden door and they enter a dusty little kitchen. Sam takes in the rough wooden table with four matching chairs, the sink and stove set that must have come from the turn of the century, the wide brick oven, the hooks hanging with utensils and pans, the swinging back door that leads into the garden again. The air is still cool and thick, but it also smells like decades of ground in spices and smoke. Sam looks to the man, who is standing beside a little, black pot-bellied stove and contemplating the flagstones.

“Why am I here?” Sam asks. The man lifts his head.

“You’re covered in road dust,” he says like it’s the plainest thing in the world. “I thought you’d like to wash off.”

Sam blinks at him. Then, slowly, he slips off his backpack and sets it on the floor beside one of the chairs. He moves to the old sink and, with the man watching, squeals open one of the taps. The sink gurgles ominously for a moment, but the water that spurts out is clear of rust or dirt. So Sam gathers water in his cupped palms and ducks his head to splash it over his face. He does this three more times, the final time wetting his hand and running it through his hair. When he straightens, he turns automatically to find the man again; he’s in the same place as before, gaze on the floor again. As if sensing Sam’s attention, he lifts his head. His expression is still as blank as the flagstones.

“Who are you?” Sam asks before he can stop himself.

The man blinks once, slowly. “Castiel,” he says. “My name is Castiel.”

Sam nods, unsure of whether to press for more information. The man had given his name like it explained everything about him.

“Have you ever chopped wood?” the man—Castiel—asks. Sam nods again, remembering November mornings bundled in pullovers and gloves at Bobby’s house. “Come on, then,” the man says, and moves toward the door. Sam follows.

***

The woodpile sits just outside the garden, beneath a single spreading oak, several yards from where the rows and rows of flowerbeds begin. Castiel shows him the axe and the stack of logs and then departs for the house and disappears into the kitchen door. Sam watches the door for several moments before setting down his backpack and picking up the axe.

Sam expects his strength to flag quickly with only a plum and a few sips of water in his system. But the sun inches its way toward noon, and at midday when Sam sets down the axe—a sturdy thing with a handle worn soft as butter—his muscles only have the pleasant, faint ache of work well done. He retreats to the oak’s shade and sips slowly from his water bottle, trying to keep it at least halfway full. He’s hesitant to go back into the kitchen to refill it at the sink; he’s unsure if he can be penalized for eating and drinking more, whether he could be caught in a endless loop of debt. Somewhere in the back of his head, he wonders if when he finally is able to leave, he’ll emerge into a world that has jumped ahead by decades. Dean could be—no. Sam doesn’t let himself dwell on that. He just needs to do the work and get out.

When he’s rested, Sam returns to the woodpile. He lets himself get lost in the receptive swing of the axe, the crack of wood that’s the only real sound able to disturb the heavy, close air. The rows of flowers watch, only stirring in occasional breezes.

When Sam splits the final log in early evening, he stacks it and leans the axe against the pile. He brings his hands over his head, stretching his back with a small groan. He drops his arms and looks around him. He hasn’t seen anyone at all that day except for Castiel. No workers, no tourists, not even the rush of a car along the main road. It’s unnerving, of course it is, and a true sign that he’s in trouble, but it’s also polar opposite to crowded buses and the Impala, and he can appreciate that part, at least.

Sam considers trying to leave again then decides it would be useless. So he picks up his backpack and turns to the house. As he’s passing through the garden, he catches sight of the stone structure visible past several beds. He hesitates before leaving it be and pushing the kitchen door open.

It takes him a moment to adjust to the kitchen’s dimness, and once he does, he registers a single steaming bowl sitting on the low wooden table. He inches forward and realizes that it’s filled with stew, thick with potatoes and carrots and chunks of meat. Sam’s stomach tightens, and he looks around the kitchen as if he’ll find Castiel lurking in a corner. It’s empty, naturally. Sam gives the stew a longing glance then turns away from it, instead moving down the hallway toward the entryway. When he steps into the space, he finds that the drapes have been closed and that the only light comes from more sconces on the second level. Sam climbs the stairs slowly, each step groaning and rippling through the cold, deep air. Sam pads along the landing, along several white doors. The sconces provide buzzing, livid light until, at one worn door, a final bulb hums and past it, the hallway is drenched in shadow. When Sam returns his attention to the door, he realizes it’s slightly ajar.

He pushes it open and finds himself in a simple bedroom with pale blue walls, a dark wooden chest of drawers, a wardrobe made of the same wood, a knitted green rug on a soft hardwood floor, and a long bed with a paisley comforter. Sam hovers at the entryway, and that’s when he feels a draft _push_ ever so slightly at his back. He shuts his eyes briefly before he steps forward and the draft drops away. He doesn’t bother to turn and look behind him. Instead, Sam examines the room and realizes that it reminds him of the bedroom where he and Dean used to sleep in Bobby’s house; it has the same smell of mothballs and old wood.

He’s tired. He has to admit that much. He hasn’t properly slept in 48 hours; his nerves have been strained for most of that time. He probably shouldn’t sleep in a place like this, but he has to sleep at some point; he’s only human.

So, with the feeling that he’s somehow capitulating to something, he sets his backpack on a stout stool perched at the bed’s foot. After a moment of consideration, he moves to a second doorway along the right wall and discovers a tiny bathroom complete with a narrow tub and a cracked yet clean sink and toilet. Sam peels off the clothes he’s been wearing since Dad found his college applications, another lifetime ago, and leaves them in a pile on the bathroom floor. Naked, he steps into the tub and crouches at its bottom as he twists at the knobs. The water that spurts out is freezing, but it feels good against the dried sweat caking Sam’s skin. He gives himself a rudimentary bath, splashing water across himself. When he shifts, he realizes that a cake of soap is sitting on the tub’s rim. He pauses because he could have sworn the rim had been clear a moment ago. He does grab the soap, though, lathering it between his hands. It smells faintly of lavender. When he’s finished and squeals the taps shut, he realizes that a well-worn, blue towel is folded on the sink’s edge and that a bathmat has appeared along the tub. Sam wraps the towel around him, lets his toes sink into the mat, and doesn’t let himself think about it.

In short order, Sam has dressed himself a clean t-shirt and sweatpants, tousled his hair dry, and left the towel draped over the radiator to dry. He peels back the bed’s cover and slips into thin sheets that smell like must and faded detergent, like they’ve only recently been taken out of storage. The mattress sags a little but holds, and when Sam pulls the covers up, they’re a comforting weight over him.

He falls asleep almost immediately.

***

Sam doesn’t dream. One moment he’s buried in soft blackness, the next his eyes are open and he’s half sitting up. The window a few feet from the bed’s headboard lets in a stream of silvery moonlight that smears across the floorboards and the green rug. He shifts his head and realizes that the air has sunk into something even more muted and cold. It’s as if he’s floating in water that is right on the edge of freezing; he can almost feel the gossamer threads of ice. It hurts to breathe; it hurts to move.

The moonlight is rippling across the floor, surging like white fire, and Sam registers that this can’t possibly be moonlight. He tosses the blankets back and clenches his teeth at the cold splashing over his skin. He eases off the mattress and pads to the window. His room overlooks the back of the house. Directly below him is the stone structure choked in roses. The roses are limned in the same churning light; Sam shifts his gaze past the garden, to the rows of lilacs.

There. He makes a small sound in the back of his throat and steps back because there’s something among the lilacs. He squeezes his eyes shut; he’s having trouble explaining to himself what he’s seeing and why it’s making his heart ram against his ribs and his skin burn with the need to run. He tries to inhale, fails, tries again, succeeds. He peels his eyes open and drags them to the thing among the lilacs.

Large. That’s one descriptor. It’s large enough that clouds skim the oblong shape at the top that ought to be a head.

Pale. Pale like faintly luminescent jellyfish somewhere in the trenches of the ocean. Pale like soft fungi in caves. Pale like the first pulses of a head wound. Unblinkingly, chokingly pale.

Bright. Sam can’t quite look at it, can only squint in its direction or gaze toward the road and watch it out of the corner of his eye. Its surface churns and shifts like a luminescent oil sheen on water, and the light it throws off is somehow a precarious mix of sunlight and the sort of harsh, white light that comes from a fluorescent bulb.

Large. Pale. Bright. Anything other than that is hard to describe because Sam thinks he sees a definite humanoid shape one moment only to have it melt into a featureless pillar the next, and he thinks he sees animal heads but he blinks and it becomes strange, twisted angles that he’s not sure make rational sense.

He loses track of how long he stands there, glued to his place by the window, before he realizes that the thing is changing. That it’s moving, slowly but steadily, to the south away from the road, into the never-ending expanse of flowers. Sam clenches his fists and, with a push through the sluggish cold air, moves toward the bedroom door.

He blinks furiously as he clatters down the stairs in his socked feet, one hand skimming the plaster wall. He bursts from the front door and rounds the house. The thing is still there, hovering large, pale, bright like a column. Sam’s feet become damp with dew as he plows through the grass. The thing doesn’t move quickly; he catches up with it soon enough. It’s not far from him then, maybe a quarter mile into the lilac field. Sam pauses at the field’s edge, chest heaving, and watches the thing churn past. He wants to keep going, to continue through the field, but he’s not sure he’d survive the encounter. So he stays rooted in position, eyes glued. That’s how he spots the figure. It’s miniscule, almost swallowed by the heaving light, but it’s definitely there. A smudge of silhouette; a shape that looks human. It strides through the flowers, its pace matched by the column’s movement. Sam keeps his eyes fixed on the tiny silhouette. He watches as long as it takes for the seething column to start to shrink with distance, then eventually be swallowed by the horizon.

***

When the sun rises, Sam is standing at the metal gate, backpack on, hands resting lightly on the bars. The road sits on the other side. Above, the sky is edging toward cerulean with mounds of puffy white clouds forming to the east. Sam inhales and doesn’t move.

“Hello.”

Sam flinches and turns. Castiel is standing a few feet behind, feet shoulder-width apart, hands hanging by his sides. The more Sam sees him, the more he’s certain that Castiel doesn’t know how to hold his own body. He gets a little flip in his stomach when he considers the reasons why Castiel wouldn’t know how to navigate a human body. Sam could ask about the glowing column among the lilacs. He doesn’t.

“If I start walking,” Sam says with far more bravado than he feels, “will I be able to leave?”

Castiel’s eyes flick to the ground for a moment before he brings them up to meet Sam again.

“I don’t know,” he says.

Sam purses his lips then grunts and begins walking toward the house again. His blood is a roar in his ears.

“Let me know what I’m supposed to be doing today,” he calls without looking behind him. A shuffle, and suddenly Castiel is walking alongside him.

“You’re angry,” Castiel observes.

“No shit.”

A long pause.

“My apologies.”

“If you’re so sorry, you could accept what I gave for your fucking fruit and let me go.”

“I’m not the one keeping you here.”

Sam stops, feet grinding in the gravel. He whirls around. “What?”

“It’s…” Castiel falters. His blank face, strangely, is marred by a slight furrowing around the eyes. “This will be easier to explain in the house.”

Sam doesn’t move. The thought of re-entering the cold, heavy air of the house makes his chest tighten. Castiel watches him for a long moment then begins walking down the road. And Sam hates himself for it, but he follows.

***

When he follows Castiel through the back door into the kitchen, there is a yellow ceramic plate sitting on the table atop a thick blue placemat. The plate holds a sandwich and an apple. Other than that, the kitchen has no discernible hint of human activity. The air is still cold. Not icy like last night. But cold.

Castiel and Sam stand side by side, both examining the food.

“It’s trying to make amends,” Castiel finally says.

“Who is? This wasn’t you?”

“No.” Castiel moves toward the table and pulls out a chair. He sits fastidiously, like he doesn’t have much experience with sitting in chairs. He gestures at the chair beside him. “Sit. Eat.”

“I ate a plum and now I can’t leave,” Sam says. “Why would I eat anything else?”

“This has been offered to you,” Castiel says patiently like Sam is a child who needs to understand that yes, the fire really is hot. “There are old rules, you know, about taking things that weren’t offered to you.”

Sam doesn’t move for a long moment. Then, slowly, he inches toward the table. He sits, but gingerly, on the front half of the chair and with his backpack hanging off of one shoulder. Castiel looks hard at it, and Sam lowers the backpack to the floor, within easy grabbing distance. He turns his attention to the food. It looks so utterly normal—rough brown bread with an edging of lettuce, the apple streaked with russet and yellow—that it puts his stomach on edge. His mouth waters traitorously. He glances to Castiel, who is watching with the usual blank expression.

“Who’s making amends?” Sam asks. His tongue sticks when he tries to talk.

“This place.” Castiel gestures. “I think it likes having a soul around.”

“A…” Sam closes his mouth, swallows. “What?”

“This place,” Castiel says slowly, “is designed to respond to a single human soul’s needs and desires. It hasn’t had one in a long time. It probably finds you refreshing.”

“And where is this place?” Sam presses.

Castiel doesn’t answer for several seconds. “It’s in Carterhaugh.”

“I got that part.”

“And Carterhaugh,” Castiel continues, “is an in-between place.” Sam’s stomach clenches. Bobby had been right.

“In between what?” Sam asks.

“For this place, in between Earth and heaven.”

Sam’s mind goes blank for a moment before rearranging into a comprehensive word.

“Heaven?” he blurts. “Like, heaven heaven? Where God and the angels live?”

“Your wording is awkward, but yes.”

Sam swallows, his muscles tightening like he’s getting ready to leap out of his chair and run. The burning white column hovers right at the edge of his awareness.

“What are you?” Sam demands. Castiel’s eyes grow heavier at their edges.

“Angel,” he says. Sam nods, inhaling deeply.

“As in, the angels people pray to?” he asks. “The ‘do not be afraid’ angels?”

“Yes.”

Sam exhales hard and splays his hands across the tabletop, staring hard at his knuckles. When he lifts his head again, Castiel hasn’t so much as shifted his position.

“God is real?” he asks faintly. Castiel’s entire face softens, and Sam realizes he’s witnessing something like a smile.

“Yes,” Castiel says. “Undoubtedly.”

Another several beats of silence pass.

“Have you met God?” Sam asks. Castiel’s expression shutters.

“I take my orders from Him,” he says.

“But you don’t know Him?”

“He made me. I know enough.”

Sam’s instinct tells him not to push this further because Castiel’s posture looks suddenly fragile somehow. He inhales abruptly and wipes a hand down his face.

“Ok. Ok. Um. But this place. I...I still don’t get it. Souls and. In between heaven and Earth.”

Castiel nudges at the plate. “You really should eat.”

“I’m gonna need a good reason why.”

Castiel settles back in his chair. “In heaven,” he says, “each soul is given their own personal paradise. Mostly it’s projections of their best memories, their most loved places and people.” He gestures. “This used to be part of someone’s heaven. A beloved home, surrounded by flowers.”

Sam shifted uneasily. “Used to be,” he says. “What happened?”

Castiel blinks, glances down, looks back up. “The soul left. The heaven dissolved. This shard drifted until it was caught here.”

“Do souls usually leave?”

Castiel doesn’t answer for almost a full minute. “No,” he says at length. “Not usually.” He exhales and looks pointedly at the food. “Heavens are designed to respond to a soul’s needs. You need food, it provides food. It’s trying to be kind.” He makes that soft expression that’s almost a smile again. “It wants you to pay for what you took; it doesn’t want you to starve.”

Sam glances at the plate again and this time is only surprised for a few seconds when he sees that it’s accompanied by a tall glass of water, its top half brimming with ice. His right hand squeezes at his thigh. Slowly, he reaches out and drags the glass closer. He lifts it and takes a sip. The water is clean, almost sweet, and Sam has to work not to groan with relief. He takes a second, longer sip. His eyes fall on the food, but he decides he’s not at that point yet. Water is enough, and he still has beef jerky in his backpack.

Sam carefully sets the glass back on the table and, with his eyes still on the glass, says, “You really are an angel.” It’s not a question, and Castiel doesn’t answer. Sam inhales abruptly and lifts his eyes. “I pray,” he says like he’s confessing something, and in a way he is. “My dad and brother aren’t really big on that. But I like to pray. It helps.”

“Yes,” Castiel says, his eyes soft and his tone unreadable.

“So I…” Sam struggles with what he’s trying to say, what he’s even feeling. “This is important. Knowing it’s real. That someone’s actually listening.” Castiel nods, but his eyes are rapidly growing distant. Sam wants to grab at him before he disappears. “ _Are_ you listening?” Sam presses, suddenly desperate, suddenly the eleven-year-old who held onto every scrap of belief in Santa Claus.

Castiel tilts his head. He exhales. “Yes, Sam,” he says. “Someone is listening.” Sam starts; he had never told his name. He stares at Castiel, and Castiel gazes back with an even expression. At length, he nods at the sandwich. “Will you eat?” he asks.

“Maybe later,” Sam says.

Castiel nods again. “Do you like weeding?”

“Enough.”

***

Sam weeds on the second day. He works in the garden, crawling among beds to tug green shoots from the dark soil. For a while, his thought is that a garden in heaven shouldn’t produce any weeds. After a few hours moving beneath the soft shadow of magnolia bushes and sprawling dogwoods, he wonders if the place is specifically producing the weeds for him. The thought almost humors him; he imagines soft green sprouts emerging from the soil seconds before he arrives.

Sometimes, when he leans back on his heels to wipe away sweat, he finds a soft cotton rag folded neatly on a nearby bench. Several times, glasses of water and plates with sandwiches appear next to the rags. Sam always accepts the water but leaves the food. By afternoon, only the water appears. Sam notices that the ice grows small and half melted. He is struck with the strange idea that the place is scolding him. He’s not sure what to make of that.

Castiel becomes scarce after making sure Sam knows what he’s doing. Once, in the late morning, Sam spots Castiel striding down the driveway toward the road. Sam pauses, wiping a thin sheen of sweat from his brow, to watch him until he disappears from view.

When dusk settles in like smoke, Sam levers himself to his feet and stretches his arms over his head to relieve sore muscles. A breeze lifts his hair in lazy waves and makes the garden beds shush. Sam collects his backpack and makes his way in the direction where he thinks the kitchen door is. The garden beds are high and thick with flowers and grasses, and Sam has to use the looming red brick house as a compass. He’s skirting between a plot bursting with lavender and a plot drenched in ivy when he realizes he’s a few feet away from the stone structure swathed in roses. Sam pauses, eying the structure’s dim innards. Sam’s right foot shifts, and then he’s walking in the direction of the structure.

It’s just the same as the last time: lichen-covered stones, a ceiling of ivy and moss, rose stems braiding over the walls. Sam hovers at the space’s edge, watching the water drip past his face in steady increments. He wonders how it can stay so damp in here, but he suspects the answer wouldn’t be nearly straightforward enough to be comforting. He moves toward the center of the space in even paces, blinking when the water splashes into his hair and trickles toward his eyes. He pauses just in front of the statue at the center. He glances behind him half expecting to see Castiel there, but the entryway is empty. So Sam turns around again and reaches out to lift away rose stems.

The statue’s features are weathered almost into obscurity; any possible hard edges have been smoothed into roundness. But the body and the face are still discernable. They’re not human. They can’t be. There’s two legs and two arms, to be fair, and an almost-human face looming over Sam. But there’s also three other heads ringing the human head, and they look like a lion, an eagle, an ox. The human’s face has something, maybe a cloth, covering the place where its eyes ought to be, and its mouth is cracked open like it’s singing or it’s screaming. One hand is raised as if in benediction or cursing; Sam can’t tell at all. Behind the heads is a shape like a sun, with points splaying in all directions. Like a halo.

Sam’s hand holding aside the rose stems is shaking slightly. He reaches out with his other hand and lets the pads of his fingers rest against the weathered robes the figure wears. He keeps his fingers rested there one second, two seconds, then he inhales hard and jerks both hands back. The rose stems fall back into place with barely a rustle. Sam examines his fingers, looks at the obscured statue again. It had been warm, the same temperature as skin. It had been pulsing.

Sam leaves. He almost runs from the structure and darts down grassy paths until he spots the kitchen door again. He slams through, ignores the plate of mashed potatoes and pot roast, and hurries up to his room again. He slams the door shut and braces himself against it. His knees are shaking.

The clothes he discarded on the bathroom door last night are folded up neatly and waiting on his bed. He stares at them while he tries to steady his breathing. It’s hard with the cold, heavy air, but he does his best.

He doesn’t bother washing, doesn’t bother changing out of his clothes. He toes off his boots and curls up on top of the bed covers and he tells himself he’s not going to let himself fall asleep, until he does.

***

He wakes up abruptly, like the night before, and the floor is washed in the same flickering white fire. Tendrils of ice are in the air again. Sam shivers and curls up tighter on himself. He can’t see out the window from this angle, but he can imagine the livid white column nevertheless. He tells himself he’s not going to let himself fall asleep again, until he does.

***

The second time waking up, Sam thinks it’s still night for the several seconds it takes for him to register the rain. It patters against the roof and window; it’s gentle, thoughtful rain, the kind accompanied by distant growls of thunder that are too muffled to be alarming. Sam remains where he is, knees partway to his chest, and listens. The rain is the only thing cutting through the heavy air. He can smell the damp and slightly fragrant mold. He closes his eyes, his lashes rasping against the bed sheet; he inhales hard, exhales in stutters.

He eases himself up slowly. The bed whines beneath him. Sometime in the middle of the night, he kicked his clean, folded clothes to the floor. He considers them before standing and carefully changing out of his sweat-stiffened clothes from yesterday and into the fresh ones. The smell of cheap detergent drifts up to his nose. He glances around at the walls, clears his throat, and says in a thin voice, “Um. Thanks.”

Nothing happens. Of course it doesn’t. Sam clears his throat again, feeling stupid, and goes to his backpack to collect a stick of jerky for breakfast. He realizes with a sinking feeling that he’s on his last stick, and that marks the end of his food supply. Sam eats half of the stick and, ignoring the tight pinch in his middle, wraps it up and places it in his pocket for dinner.

He goes into the bathroom to splash water on his face and run a toothbrush over his teeth before, reluctantly, he pushes open the bedroom door and peers into the second landing. The electric lights are all on, humming and buzzing. He can see down into the main entry hall, can see the drapes pulled open and the gray rain spattering against the glass. It takes him another moment to pull the door shut behind him and pad along the landing and down the stairs. The rain and the lights provide a constant coursing white noise that drowns out the small sounds of his movements. When he reaches the bottom of the stairs, he turns left and takes the hallway leading to the kitchen.

When he pushes into the kitchen, he’s startled to find it downright warm. There’s a real, honest fire with a heap of logs and rain hissing as it falls down the chimney and hits the flames. On the table sit a small white dish with a single slice of buttered toast and a blue speckled mug. Sam approaches the table and peers into the mug. Coffee. Freshly roasted, by the smell. He bites at his bottom lip then picks up the mug. He presses the rim to his lips and inhales. When he sips, the temperature is just this side of hot. He ignores the toast and shuffles to a low stool perched in front of the fire like someone has just left and is coming back soon. Sam settles himself onto the stool, coffee in both hands, and takes a second sip while he watches the fire pop and hiss. He hears the barest hint of a clatter behind him, and he turns with his heart in his mouth. The plate and toast are gone; in their place is a full coffee pot. Sam has no idea how a coffee pot can look mulish, but this one does. He almost smiles.

“Sorry,” he says, ignoring for the moment how stupid he is to talk to…whatever this thing is. “The coffee’s good.” The coffee pot has no response, so Sam turns back around and sighs, settling the speckled mug into his lap. He lets himself drink the coffee at a leisurely pace, losing himself in watching the fire and listening to the rain beat against the house. He even pours himself a second mug as a sort of olive branch.

He finishes the second mug by the back door. It’s a double door, one plastic and glass, and one screen. He has the solid door propped open and watches the garden through the mesh. The rain churns the beds into muddy soups, and flower heads bow under the weight of extra water. From this angle, he can just see the top of the stone structure; the roses are blurs of red and pink. He ignores the twist in his gut and takes another sip from his mug.

He suspects he must spend an hour in the kitchen with his coffee, and by the end of it, Castiel has yet to appear. Sam wonders if this means he can leave, and he imagines himself grabbing his things and walking away, rain or no rain. And then what? He might loop back to the gate, and he doesn’t know if he can handle that happening to him again. He doesn’t want to remind himself that he’s being held hostage here. He’ll leave when he’s sure he can make it out.

So he rinses out his mug in the sink and sets it in the old wire dish rack. He glances around the kitchen one last time before he heads for the door that leads to the hallway. He wonders if he’s imagining the air thickening and cooling in front of his face as he pushes the door open and peers out at the buzzing electric lights, the gray flagstones. He moves forward, his boots grinding against the stone. He pauses at the first entryway on his right; it leads into a shadowy space only identifiable as a sitting room by the outline of furniture. He leans into the room, one hand brushing against the wall to try and find a switch. He’s not sure if he actually finds it, but suddenly a pale light floods the room. Sam squints up at a simple chandelier hanging over an arrangement of tables and chairs. The walls, covered in dull flowered wallpaper, are lined in bookshelves, and across the hardwood floor is a vast rug that looks threadbare with use. Sam walks in; the hardwood groans under his feet. He moves to the bookshelves almost on instinct, letting his eyes slide over the spines. Most of the books have frayed edges and are missing their dust jackets; it’s a lot of poetry and old classics and memoirs, not organized in any specific manner. There’s a distinct lack of dust that, if nothing else, reminds Sam this place isn’t normal. He drifts away from the shelves, skirting a wide, low couch and passing an empty fireplace to approach a tall window with charcoal-gray curtains. He twitches the curtains aside and finds himself confronted with a bobbing crowd of dripping foxgloves. He can see the driveway from this window; it’s blurred and soggy under the rain. He lets the curtain fall.

Sam turns from the window and spots the door nestled into the far wall. He strides across the room to open it and finds himself in an office. As soon as he steps through, the lamps scattered around the room light up. Sam hesitates, but moves further into the room. There are bookshelves here too, along with a cluttered desk. Sam approaches the desk and peers at the shelves stuffed with papers and envelopes. A pile of newspapers, yellowed and wrinkling, leans against the desk’s right, and on the left is stacks of National Geographic. The topmost issue is from July 1945. Sam hums and looks around, realizing that a second entryway leads into the hallway again. He has little desire to go there at the moment, though. The office and its books and its wooden floor feel slightly less foreboding, the air a little warmer and lighter. So Sam moves to the nearest bookshelf and scans what’s available. He pauses when he glimpses a spine with “Celtic Faerie Tales” embossed on the cover. He snorts, bowing his head briefly as if in capitulation before he reaches out and tugs the book free from the shelf. It’s comfortably heavy in his hand, the rough cover a dark green. He carries the book into the sitting room and only starts a little at the realization that a fire has been started in the fireplace. He opens the window’s curtains properly then settles into the couch closest to the fire—an old, squishy leather thing—and flips the book open. He opens on a page with “Fair, Brown, and Trembling” printed on the top. He looks down to the story’s first line: “King Hugh Curucha lived in Tir Conal, and he had three daughters, whose names were Fair, Brown, and Trembling.” He leans back in the couch and begins to read.

He moves through four stories, which takes up most of the morning, and then his stomach grumbling at him makes it hard to concentrate. He sets the book on a small side table and stands, rolling kinks from his shoulders before making his way into the hallway and up the stairs so he can use the bathroom in his room.

When he’s finished with his business, Sam passes the window and then has to stop because there’s two bright yellow smudges in the distance. Sam rushes to the window and cups his hands over his eyes so he can confirm that yes, the yellow smudges are at the end of the driveway, in the main road, and that they’re coming from a large, blurry shape that must be a car. Sam stands frozen with indecision for a few seconds then turns and grabs his backpack where it’s leaning against the wall. He clatters from his room and down the stairs, barely pausing so he can push open the front doors and rush down the stone path that winds through the garden. The car hasn’t moved; he can just make out its outline through the rain. His hair and clothes rapidly start to sag with water, but he doesn’t care, because this might be a way out. He has to hope.

Halfway down the drive, he realizes there’s someone in a long, dark coat standing alongside the car, a matching black umbrella over their head. When Sam reaches the gate, the umbrella tilts and the man named McCloud peers out at him with a round smile. Sam skids to a halt, his hands clapping against the metal gate. Across the bars, McCloud continues to grin.

“Hello,” McCloud says as if this is a perfectly normal meeting. Silence follows. The car rumbles to itself, its yellow lights picking out the raindrops. Sam grips the gate’s metal bars. “You see,” McCloud continues. “I believe you should have followed my advice.”

The cold feeling in the base of Sam’s gut crawls up through his lungs and clings to his throat. His grip on the gate’s metal bars is painful; his fingers ache with cold and strain. McCloud keeps the same round, pasty smile.

“Wh—“ Sam falters. His clothes are becoming heavy; his hair is pasted to his skull. He shuts his eyes briefly and wipes a hand over the lower half of his face.

McCloud tilts his head. “See, I knew this place was floating out here,” he says mildly. “Though I didn’t know you’d be stupid enough to get entangled in it.” He shrugs. “But I should know better than to expect too much of humans.”

Sam’s gut twinges. “You’re a uh…an angel too?”

McCloud throws back his head and guffaws. It’s not a friendly sound. “On my bitch mother’s grave, not at all,” he says. Sam gives a tiny nod. He feels like there’s a very clear alternative for what the man under the umbrella could be, but he’s wary to say it aloud. McCloud examines him like he knows what Sam is thinking and enjoys it.

“Okay,” Sam says, pushing as much bravado into his voice as he can. “So what’re you doing here?”

“I’m here to see if the rumor was true.”

“What rumor?”

“You.” McCloud’s grin expands into a toothy smile. “You’re something very valuable locked in with a very dangerous creature, Sam. Many of us are intensely curious about what happens next.”

A blinding white column. A statue with four heads and a hot, pulsing surface. Sam blinks hard and inhales. “What’re you—“

“Crowley.”

Sam turns, his boots crunching in the muddy gravel. Castiel stands a few paces behind him, back ramrod straight, fists clenched at his side. It’s the first time Sam can say he’s looked mad. Castiel’s blue eyes flick over Sam, and Sam swears he can see them grow dark.

“Did he touch you?” Castiel asks. Sam takes a moment to register that Castiel is talking to him.

“No,” he says dumbly. Castiel flicks his eyes to McCloud.

“You’re feeling bold,” Castiel says. His voice is cold, cold enough to make Sam’s muscles tense. McCloud’s smile turns magnanimous.

“Curiosity killed the cat, I suppose,” he says. “Though satisfaction brings it back.”

“And are you satisfied?” Castiel asks, his voice like a slab of ice. “Then go. If I see you around here again, I’ll turn you into a pile of ash.”

“Promises, promises,” McCloud says. He tilts his head toward Sam, eyes still on Castiel. “I trust you realize what could happen if you—“

“Go,” Castiel says. Something in the timbre of his voice shifts. He sounds like he’s speaking from down a long tunnel, like there’s something huge and rushing behind him. It’s enough to make McCloud pause, chin lifted. He shrugs after a moment, though it doesn’t look as loose and indolent as he probably intends it to look. He shifts his attention to Sam one more time.

“Best of luck,” he says without sounding at all sincere. He turns to the car and clacks it open, closing the umbrella before slipping inside. The car’s engine shifts pitch before it lurches down the road, its headlights bouncing slightly. Neither Sam nor Castiel move until the car’s red rear-end lights are swallowed up by the rain. A growl of thunder echoes over the fields of flowers. Sam’s hands are still curled around the metal bars.

“Sam.”

Sam flinches despite himself. He turns enough to see Castiel watching him like he’s not sure what Sam is going to do next. “You’re soaked,” Castiel finally says. Sam shrugs. When he finally pries his fingers from the bar, he realizes how cold and stiff they’ve become. He opens and closes his fingers a few times to loosen the joints and looks over at Castiel. He realizes that the rain somehow isn’t reaching him; his clothes are completely dry. Sam shouldn’t be surprised by this.

“What is he?” he asks.

“Demon.”

Sam’s heart sinks. “I was in a car with him, before I came here.” Sam peers closely at Castiel. “He didn’t do anything to me.”

Castiel sighs and rolls his shoulders once. “Crowley doesn’t do things unless he has a reason for it. I suppose, if nothing else, it’s preferable to the ones who like to sow chaos for its own sake.” Castiel eyes him. “You really are soaked,” he says. Sam lifts one shoulder in a resigned sort of shrug. “Would you like to go inside?” Castiel pushes.

Sam shifts his backpack higher on his shoulders. “Will you tell me what he was talking about?”

Castiel’s entire frame stiffens. “I can’t.”

“Okay.” Sam wipes soaked strands of hair from his eyes. Then, without another word, he sets off down the driveway, past an unmoving Castiel. Sam has no idea where he’s going; he just knows he can’t stay here anymore. He doesn’t sense Castiel following him; he doesn’t let himself look back.

It’s when he aimlessly rounds the house that Sam spots his saving grace in the form of a low, wooden shed with a tin roof. Sam hurries through the muddy grass, shoes squelching. He pushes at the faded wooden door with its ancient remnants of paint and finds himself in a dim, dusty space reeking of mold. The sound of rain on the tin roof is deafening. Around the shed are sundry gardening tools: shovels, hoes, flower pots, bags of mulch and potting soil, pruning shears, rakes. Sam squelches across the shed to an overturned paint bucket and sits heavily. He’s soaked to his skin and he wishes he could peel off his clothes. Instead he sits on his paint bucket, hunched over and feeling monumentally sorry for himself. He’d find it funny if the situation didn’t feel so dire. He abruptly wishes Dean were here, then immediately after wants to scold himself for wishing his brother into this situation. Doesn’t stop him from wanting, though.

So he sits, head in his hands, and breathes his way through the next ten minutes, then the next half hour, then the next hour. And he stays like that until, with a small hitch in his stomach, he realizes that the rain has faded away. He lifts his head and blinks at the rush of blood. The roof is silent; the only sound is wind. Sam stands, damp clothes chafing against his skin, and goes to the shed’s door to push it open. The light outside is a dim, grayish yellow from a sun still shrouded in thin clouds. The entire world shimmers in raindrops caught in grass and leaves. It’s gorgeous. Sam glances at the house and realizes that several windows are lit up yellow. He sighs, ducks back into the shed to fetch his backpack, then starts trudging toward the house. He enters through the front door, half expecting to see Castiel waiting for him. He isn’t, and Sam fights back a strange mix of disappointment and relief as he makes his way up the stairs to his bedroom.

For the next half hour, he takes his time setting the contents of his backpack out to dry and taking a hot bath. The towel he finds waiting on the sink is newer and fluffier than the last one, and Sam wonders if someone is trying to apologize.

When he’s dressed in his driest clothes, Sam fishes around for the last half of beef jerky and eats it in two bites. It does very little for the tightness around his middle. And then he does what he’s always done on nights that the food is scarce: he crawls into bed, curls up, and tries to fall asleep. In the past, he’s also tried praying to keep his mind occupied. Tonight, he can’t quite find the words.

***

Once again, Sam doesn’t even register waking up. He sifts into the awareness that the air is frozen again, the white fire is smeared across the floor again. This time, Sam throws back the covers with a pulse of something like annoyance. He deliberately jams his feet into his shoes, grabs his jacket from the end of the bed, and makes his way to the front door.

The column is like a skyscraper; the same unreal angles and shapes shift in and out of perception; Sam makes sure to keep his legs moving. He reaches the edge of the lilac field and doesn’t stop. The sickly sweet scent crashes into him in waves, and lilac flowers scatter in front of him. The column pulses, its incandescent oily sheen impossible to look at. Sam’s pupils already ache, and peering through barely squinted eyes doesn’t seem to do much.

The closer he gets to the column, the heavier his feet become. He feels as if he’s trudging through chilled molasses; everything slows and pitches forward, and the light is so big and painful that it’s threatening to burn through his eyes right into his brain. But still, he can make out the small, dark silhouette at the column’s base; he can see the outline of a large coat.

Sam shouts Castiel’s name. Or, he thinks he shouts. He can’t actually hear himself over the light and the cold molasses. But it must do something because the silhouette slows, then pauses, then it seems to actually turn in his direction, and the shrieking bright column echoes its movements like a great, floating ribbon.

“Hey,” Sam says, again without hearing himself at all and without feeling his lips move because everything has become numb with cold and light. He’s not honestly sure whether he’s still moving, whether he’s upright, whether he has a body; everything has stopped existing except for the pale, painful light and the feeling of falling into something very deep and very slow.


	2. Chapter 2

“You’re a fucking idiot, dude,” Dean says.

Sam hums. His head pounds. It’s a specific spot, too, like someone inside his skull is taking a stake to a point just above his right eye.

“I mean, come on.” Dean sits somewhere above Sam with his legs bent and his folded arms resting on his knees, glancing down with that stupid big-brother judgmental expression. Sam wants to tell him to knock it off, but Dean wouldn’t listen. “You _know_ you’re not dealing with the usual creepy critters, Sammy. This ain’t no dead guy mad that his wife killed him. This is.” Dean whistles. “This is some high octane shit.”

Sam makes a groan that’s meant to translate into, “You think I don’t know that?”

Dean laughs and shakes his head. “I _know_ you know that. I think that’s why you ran down to give the nightmare fuel a hug, or whatever it was you were trying to do. You’re drawn to that sort of stuff, Sammy. It’s why you pray, right? Doesn’t matter if it could kill you without thinking. You still chase it.”

Sam screws up his eyes. His head is still trying to kill him. “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mumbles, forcing the words through numb lips.

“’Course you do.”

“Do not.”

“Sam?”

Sam flinches, and the pain in his head redoubles. He hisses and tries to bring up a hand to press to his brow. He misses, and his hand ends up flailing somewhere around his mouth and nose. A cool, firm hand wraps around his fingers, pulling the hand away. A second hand comes to engulf the hand.

“Sam.”

It’s not Dean. Dean isn’t here. He can’t be—he _shouldn’t_ be—because Sam is not in a hotel room and he’s not in the Impala because he’s in a red brick house surrounded by acres of flowers in a lost shard of someone’s discarded heaven and there’s an angel gripping his fingers in two cool, firm hands.

“C’stiel,” Sam croaks.

“Yes,” Castiel agrees. “How are you feeling?”

Sam considers this. He hasn’t opened his eyes yet out of mild concern that it might split open the spot on his skull where someone’s stake is already making a sizeable hole. He tries to take stock of the rest of his body. It’s horizontal, he realizes. It’s on something relatively soft, though not a bed. There’s a source of warmth nearby, and the crack of logs tells him it’s a fire. Castiel is there, unavoidable. He smells like damp lightning, and Sam is perfectly aware that makes no sense, but it’s all he has to offer with the growing hole in his skull.

“There’s a hole in my skull,” Sam mumbles. Silence greets him for a moment. One of Castiel’s hands pulls away, and a second later Sam feels rough pads skim over his forehead. He shivers before he can help himself.

“There’s no hole,” Castiel says. “But I imagine you have considerable swelling.”

“Oh.” Sam inhales and exhales carefully, trying not to jostle anything. “What happened?”

Silence passes for a beat. “Sometimes. Getting too close. It hurts bodies.”

Sam inhales.

“Too close to you?”

Silence.

“Yes.”

Exhale.

“Here,” Castiel says. Fabric shifts. “Can you sit up?”

“No.”

“You need to drink something.”

Sam grimaces and tenses his muscles in preparation of levering himself up. The next moment, everything shorts out with ragged-edges pain. Sam makes a croaking, animal sound, and Castiel’s hands tighten around his hand. The croaking turns into a keening, and Sam realizes he’s crying.

“Oh.” One of the hands shifts to card a few times through Sam’s hair. The fingers carry the same heaviness Sam can hear in Castiel’s voice. Sam heaves his next few inhales, trying to follow the thread of his own breathing out of the morass that is the rest of his body. He’s aware of little besides Castiel’s presence and the heat of the fire and his breathing and the pain.

He might black out. He’s not sure. But at some point Sam has to assume that he’s shifted closer to the fire because a peculiar warmth is surging through his body. It’s the warmth of a stalwart, yellow sun on a vicious winter day. It’s faint, and it’s searching, and its heat is not able to be overwhelming but it’s doing its best to be comforting. Sam whines while the pale warmth nudges through his bones and down his veins.

He becomes aware of a point of contact. A press of skin on his forehead. Fingers. Sam peels his eyes open before he can think, and he realizes Castiel’s hand is extended toward him; two fingers are resting lightly just above his right eyebrow. Castiel looks concentrated. Then, abruptly, his shoulders relax and his fingers pull away from Sam’s brow. The pale warmth slides out of Sam like someone slipping covers off of a sleeping body. Sam shivers without meaning to.

“Sam?” Castiel peers down at him. The fire is low and murmuring behind him. Past Castiel’s head, Sam thinks he’s seeing the kitchen ceiling.

Sam hums hazily in response.

“Tell me if that helps.”

Sam hums again in lieu of saying, ‘If what helps?’

“Sam, can you try sitting up again?”

Sam frowns and shakes his head. Castiel’s hand wraps around his wrist and squeezes.

“Please?”

Sam looks hard at Castiel, at the blue eyes and the light stubble and the carved bags under the eyes. For the first time, he can appreciate how hilarious it is that there’s an angel in a trench coat who looks like someone’s tax accountant. Angels don’t wear trench coats or look like tax accountants. Angels and trench coats and tax accountants are nowhere in the same realm. If Sam hadn’t seen the column and the silhouette at its base, he’d tell Castiel that he must have made up the angel thing, because that combined with the trench coat thing makes absolutely zero sense.

“You’re seriously an angel?” Sam slurs. He winces. He hadn’t meant to say that aloud. Castiel’s expression relaxes slightly.

“I assure you,” he says.

Sam exhales. “If I move, is it going to hurt?”

Castiel hesitates. “It shouldn’t. I don’t think it will.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

“On your halo.”

Castiel’s eyebrows rise. “Very well.” There’s definitely amusement in his voice. “I promise on my halo that I don’t think there will be pain.”

“That sounds like a cop out,” Sam murmurs, and immediately afterwards closes his eyes and tenses his muscles again.

They ache. They definitely ache, but they don’t go past that. Sam feels as if he’s merely come off of a hard run, and not as if all his muscles have ripped apart. Sam sighs and focuses on moving his arm so he can push himself up to a sit. Castiel’s hands dart forward to help him, one on his back and on his shoulder. Sam blinks hard at the rush of blood, and then he’s sitting upright. He looks down to find himself sitting on a thick, folded quilt that has been spread across the kitchen floor in front of the fireplace. The kitchen is dark, the only light coming from the banked embers and ambient moonlight seeping through the window. Sam turns; Castiel’s face is thrown in sharp relief. Sam tries to read his expression, but it’s hard to settle between relief and grimness. Grim relief, then.

“Here.” Castiel shifts, and then the blue speckled mug is in his hand. “Water.”

The water is a small glory on Sam’s throat, and he drains the entire mug before handing it back. When Castiel accepts it, their fingers brush and Sam starts with the heat radiating off of Castiel’s skin. It’s like a fever, but amplified. Sam withdraws his fingers into a fist and darts his eyes up to Castiel’s.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

Castiel looks confused for a split second before his face clears. “My grace,” he says. “I just pulled in a large amount in a small space of time.” He splays his fingers and examines him. “This can happen. It’s fine.”

“Grace,” Sam echoes, shifting on the quilt. His muscles twinge but don’t protest. “What, like power?” Castiel nods once. Sam frowns. “What were you using grace fo—“ He realizes halfway through and leans backwards. “Oh.” Castiel lifts one shoulder as if embarrassed, as if wishing Sam would drop it and move on to other things. Sam looks at his hands curled up in his lap. The palms are bright, flushed red, like he’s had them pressed to something too hot, but not quite hot enough to burn him. He tries to remember the lilac field. Numbness and a piercing light thrusting into his brain and falling slowly. He lifts his head, brushing hair from his eyes.

“What happened?” he asks.

Castiel retreats slightly, shoulders coming in, head lowering. It’s a completely human gesture, and Sam has no idea where it came from.

“I was careless,” Castiel says.

Sam frowns. “I think…I think I’m the one. I mean. I left the house. I went into the field where…“ He cuts himself off when he can’t find the words he wants.

“I was careless,” Castiel repeats, his voice more forceful. “I should have…ah, retreated when I realized you were there. But I was surprised. I didn’t, and you were—“ Castiel stumbles to a halt. He looks pained. “You were very badly hurt. That’s what happens when a mortal gets too close.”

Sam purses his lips. “To what? To you?”

“Any angel that isn’t shielding themselves.”

Be not afraid. That’s what the angels had to tell people in the Bible, when they spoke to humans. He should never have assumed that the mild-looking man in front of him was the full picture. Of course there would be more. Sam examines Castiel, this time with something like curiosity pushing through him. And the fear is still there because Sam is only human. He’d be stupid not to be at least a little frightened by what he saw, by what it was able to do to him. But somehow, knowing for sure that the livid white column is also Castiel, he feels settled. He knows what he’s working with now.

Sam thoughtfully palms the muscles of his forearm, feeling the bones and the tendons. “How bad was it?” he asks.

Castiel inhales. “Very bad.”

Sam nods, eyes still on his arm. “Well. You did a good job. I feel okay.”

“I thought I had healed you enough the first time,” Castiel says, voice flat with something that sounds like frustration. “I’m sorry; I didn’t realize you would still hurt.”

“It’s okay,” Sam says, finally dropping his arm.

Castiel doesn’t look convinced. He glances at the fire and sighs. “Come along,” he says, and it takes Sam a moment to register that he’s not talking to him. Something in the fireplace clatters, and Sam turns just in time to see a fresh pile of logs and a rapidly growing flame.

“Does it have to listen to you?” Sam inquires.

“It’s…in the habit of listening to me,” Castiel allows. He glances at the mug still in his hand and hands it to Sam. “Drink a bit more.”

Sam knows that Castiel never refilled the mug, but it’s brimming with cool, sweet water anyway. Sam’s getting good at accepting these things, though, and he sips at it more slowly while Castiel shifts to a stand and moves to the kitchen table. Sam hears a distinct clacking sound, and then the air is filled with something warm and savory. Sam’s mouth grows heavy immediately.

“Do you feel well enough to come to the table?” Castiel asks. “Or I can bring this to you.” His voice turns lighter. “Because I really do insist at this point that you eat something.”

Sam wants to decline, but the savory smell is tugging at his stomach, and Sam only has the paltry beef jerky in his system. He grips at the mug with two hands.

“It won’t…” He trails off.

“No.”

Sam nods once, sets the mug on the flagstones surrounding the fireplace, and slowly levers to a stand. He takes a moment to let his muscles adjust then moves to the table. A large bowl of golden-yellow soup waits for him. Sam sinks into a chair and finds a spoon near one hand. He picks it up and only hesitates a few seconds before he thrusts it into the bowl then into his mouth. Butternut squash soup. He groans and immediately flushes. Castiel looks suspiciously smug.

“Why aren’t you eating?” Sam asks, mostly to deflect. Castiel shrugs.

“I don’t need to.”

“But can you?”

“If I want.”

“What if I want you to?”

Castiel stares at him, then his eyebrows lift and his lips tighten like he’s trying to suppress a smile. “Very well.”

Another clatter, and suddenly a second bowl of the same soup is in front of Castiel, steaming lightly. Castiel picks up his spoon and stirs the soup once before taking a small fastidious, sip. Sam watches him for a reaction.

“Well?” Sam asks. “It’s good.”

Castiel purses his lips. “It tastes very much like molecules.”

Sam snorts then opens his mouth and lets out a braying, honest laugh. His abs ache slightly in response, but otherwise the feeling flooding through him is so refreshing and wonderful that it takes him by surprise, and that only makes him laugh harder. He bends over almost double, relishing in the feeling. He literally can’t remember the last time he laughed like this. Probably with Dean and probably after a few too many beers.

When Sam finally is able to straighten, he finds Castiel watching him with wide eyes. “Sorry.” Sam coughs out another few giggles, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. “I uh. Yeah. Sorry.”

“No need.” Castiel’s head is tilted; he looks amused. Maybe almost fond. That thought sends a sharp spark through Sam’s gut, and he drops his head abruptly. He starts to eat again. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Castiel bring his own spoon to his mouth a few times, but Sam can’t tell if he’s actually eating. It doesn’t matter. But Sam is somehow gratified that Castiel appears to be trying for his sake.

Sam finished his soup quickly enough and declines Castiel’s offer for a second serving.

“You should sleep, then,” Castiel says.

Warm and full of good soup, Sam’s instinct is to agree. But he also is reluctant to move from this spot, from this moment in a warm, dusty kitchen with Castiel watching him so carefully.

“Your body is not fully healed,” Castiel presses. Sam nods slowly.

“Okay,” he agrees. Sam takes a moment then braces his hands on the tabletop and pushes to a stand. His head only floats slightly. “I’m fine.” He waves his hand at Castiel, who looks ready to spring forward and help keep him upright. Sam takes an experimental step forward. It takes a moment for his brain to remember how to direct the rest of his body, but he stays upright, so he counts it as a victory. He shoots a small smile back at Castiel. “I really am.” Castiel looks thoroughly unconvinced.

“If you call for help,” Castiel says, “I’ll come and help you. Any time.” Sam pauses then, frowning at Castiel. Castiel frowns back. “Is there a problem?”

“Don’t you leave at night?” Sam asks. “I mean, I’ve seen the col—you. I’ve seen you leave.” Castiel’s expression wipes flat again. Sam’s stomach flips. “Or, I guess I assumed. You’d walk into the lilacs and then I wouldn’t see you anymore so I assumed…” He trails off, feeling like he’s just digging the ditch deeper at this point.

“I don’t leave,” Castiel says. His mouth tugs up in the facsimile of a smile. “So, I’ll hear you.”

Sam nods. He says thank you. Then he turns and walks across the kitchen with only a little stiffness and stumbling, and he walks all the way down the hall, up the stairs, and into his bedroom without looking behind him.

***

Sam doesn’t wake up until well into late morning, judging by the nature of the sunlight angling into his room. He bathes and dresses feeling energized and almost eager. Finally eating something more than a few bites of beef jerky must be doing him good. He ventures down to the kitchen and is greeted by the same blue speckled mug and full coffee pot as well as a hopeful bowl of oatmeal lightly sprinkled with brown sugar. Sam eats the oatmeal and drinks the coffee, and the soft blue curtains in front of the open window billow in a way that feels self-satisfied, almost smug.

Sam steps into a back garden and finds the ground still spongy and soft from yesterday’s rain. But otherwise, the sky is mostly clear, the sun ducking behind drifting clouds every few minutes before reappearing.

Castiel is nowhere in sight, so Sam pushes through the garden’s low gate and follows the driveway through the orchard. A few hundred yards from the road, Sam spots a small figure kneeling beside the fence. When Sam draws closer, Castiel stands in one smooth motion. The wind flaps at the edges of his coat and his dark hair. He’s beautifully framed against the cloud-studded sky, and Sam can’t help that his breath catches in his throat.

He recovers by the time he approaches Castiel, pausing an acceptable several feet from him. He glances at the fence and realizes that a post and the attached rails have been knocked over as if by a car accident. But there’s no broken glass or scattered fender bits.

“How are you feeling?” Castiel asks. Sam shifts his attention to him.

“Good,” he says. He grins suddenly. “Really good, actually. I think it helped to eat.”

Castiel’s expression softens in one of his smiles. “I’m glad.” He gestures at the fence. “Do you feel well enough to help me fix some things around the property?”

“Help you—Yeah. Sure.” Sam’s head bobs. Castiel looks gratified.

They hike to the small shed where Sam had hidden the day before. Today, the sunlight that makes its way through chinks in the wood picks out the floating dust and pollen. Together, they’re able to find a box of nails, a hammer, several lengths of wood that seem to be meant for the fence, and other tools. Then they load them all in a rusty wheelbarrow and push it back to the broken spot on the fence.

Sam spent enough time on Bobby’s property to become handy with tools; he’s fairly certain he could fix the fence on his own. He has no idea how much angels know about fixing fences; he’s hesitant to assume anything about what Castiel knows. So he hangs back with the wheelbarrow while Castiel examines the broken post.

“It’ll need to be replaced,” Castiel says at length, pointing out the cracked base. “Let’s start with the shovels.”

They pull out the two shovels and, together, dig out the earth surrounding the broken post. For nearly fifteen minutes, they move in tandem, arms and shoulder tensing each time they dig the shovelheads into the earth then dump the soil into a small pile. Sam’s face becomes covered in light sweat soon enough, and he’s grateful for the rag he finds draped on one of the nearby rails. Castiel, perhaps unsurprisingly, shows no sign of sweat or even of growing short of breath. Sam almost wants to laugh at the incongruence, at this person who looks like he belongs in a cubicle rather than working with his hands.

“Aren’t you hot?” Sam asks at one point, straightening and wiping sweat from his brow. Castiel glances up, and it takes a moment for the confusion to clear.

“No,” he says simply, though his voice is warm. “I don’t tend to overheat.”

“Not even in that coat?” Sam gestures.

“The coat doesn’t make much difference.”

“Huh.” Sam nods once.

“You look bothered,” Castiel ventures. Sam sniffs and shrugs, ducking his head to wipe the rag over his face again.

“I’m getting a little cognitive dissonance, I guess.” Sam glances up and shrugs again. “I guess I expect you to be…you know.”

Castiel tilts his head as if giving serious consideration to Sam’s words. Then, in deliberate motions, he sets down his shovel and strips off his overcoat. Underneath, he’s wearing a dark blue jacket and pressed white shirt. He drapes the coat over a fence post and turns to Sam, hands open as if presenting himself.

“Better?” Castiel asks.

Sam nods.

They pick up their shovels and continue digging.

Soon enough, they’ve cleared away enough soil around the post to dig the post out. They load it in the wheelbarrow and pull out the replacement post. They settle the new post into the hole and, after ensuring it’s level, replace the dirt. The rails slot into the post easily enough, and nailing everything in place takes only a few minutes.

Sam looks over their work with satisfaction then turns to Castiel. “Did someone run into the fence last night?” he asks.

Castiel frowns. “I don’t think so.”

“I mean, it wasn’t broken yesterday. And I don’t see how else it could have happened. Was it McCloud? Crowley? Whoever he is?”

“No, it wasn’t Crowley.” Castiel grabs his coat and lets it hang from his forearm. “Things break sometimes.” He gestures up the driveway. “There’s a few tiles on the roof that need to be replaced.”

“Okay.”

They work into mid-afternoon, Sam following Castiel from one small project to the next. After the roof tiles, they spend several hours pruning the garden, then manage to coax a lawn mower’s old engine into working again. The whole time, Castiel moves with an easy grace that keeps catching Sam by surprise, especially when he compares it to how Castiel handled his body like it was a foreign thing when Sam first arrived. Once he thinks about that, he considers the fact that Castiel is much more expressive; his face flows from one emotion to another without real hitches. It’s only sometimes that Sam sees the cold, flat expression that dominated Castiel’s face in the beginning.

After the engine, they sit together in one of the garden benches. Sam drinks from a glass of water that he found at his elbow; Castiel watches the driveway. Sam keeps sneaking glances over without being able to help himself.

“Castiel,” he finally says.

Castiel turns his head. “Yes?”

“Does this place, uh, make work for me?” Sam gestured with the glass. “I mean, if it can conjure food and water out of nowhere, I feel like it would be able to prune and weed and fix things on its own.”

“Those problems wouldn’t appear at all, usually,” Castiel allows. “But remember what I said? It responds to a human soul.”

Sam’s eyebrows rise. “You saying I subconsciously wanted to fix an engine today?”

“No. But humans…” Castiel hesitates. “You’re full of entropy.”

“Entropy?” Sam echoes.

“Your very nature is to change things, to increase disorder. It’s no surprise this place would respond to that.”

“So…I broke the fence?”

“No,” Castiel says. “Or, not directly.” He smiles, an actual lifting of his lips and warmth in his eyes. “Don’t worry, Sam. It’s nothing to feel guilty about.”

Sam nods and, before he can stop himself, blurts, “Is it the same reason you’re acting more like a…” He trails off.

“More like?”

“Like a person.”

Castiel’s lips purse slightly, and he looks in the direction of the orchard. “Something like that,” he says. He glances toward Sam. “Being around a human reminds you how it works. You forget if you don’t go to Earth often, if you spend most of your time in heaven.”

Sam shifts on the bench. “Is that you? Do you spend most of your time in heaven?”

“Recently, yes,” Castiel says. He straightens. “I used to travel to Earth all the time for various tasks. My sister, Anael, she and I would sneak there sometimes even if we didn’t have a task. We liked watching the people.”

Sam blinks, trying to fit in the idea of Castiel running around with a sister like a truant kid. It’s almost charming.

“Anael,” he says, trying out the name on his tongue. “What’s she like?”

Castiel flinches. It’s slight, easy to miss, but Sam sees it. His chest tightens with the sense that he asked the wrong question.

“She was my commander. She was vibrant. Fearless. We’re meant to love all our brothers and sisters equally, but I think I loved her best.” Sam doesn’t speak. Castiel inhales and exhales heavily. “She fell,” he says, voice matter-of-fact. Sam can’t tell if this means she died, but based on the way Castiel is holding his shoulders, he can guess that it’s close enough.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice pitched low.

“She left the way she wanted to,” Castiel says, turning to Sam. “Which is more than I can say for myself.”

“Which means what?”

Castiel folds his hands between his knees. “Anael and I were given orders to…to do something that would ultimately lead to a human soul being destroyed. When we refused to follow orders, our superiors tried to take us in. Anna cut herself loose, and she fell and was gone. And I…” He briefly wipes a hand over his face; Sam is struck that this is one of his own behavioral quirks. “I was captured. I was placed here.”

Sam’s fingers dig into the bench’s edge. He blinks around at the serene garden, at the fields of flowers extending into forever.

“You’re a prisoner,” he says. He recalls what Crowley said the day before: something valuable locked in with something dangerous. He’s sitting next to a celestial criminal.

Except no, Sam reminds himself, Castiel was refusing to hurt someone. Surely, that means he’s safe. Yes, he’s safe. Sam is certain of that, at this point.

Castiel is watching him carefully. “Are you frightened?” he asks.

“No,” Sam says truthfully. He unclenches his fingers from the edge of the bench. “Surprised.” He licks his lips. “Disturbed.”

“By what?”

“The idea that God would wrongfully imprisonment you.” Sam frowns. “I thought that was the whole point of heaven. Perfect judgment.”

Castiel shakes his head slowly. “My Father did not order me to be imprisoned. At least, I don’t think so. Naomi makes decisions like this. And when did I ever say this is wrongful imprisonment? I understand how it might look to a human, but this can only be expected under Enochian law. Angels are meant to be perfect warriors of God. We can’t defect and still serve our purpose; it’s not possible.”

Sam hums thoughtfully, trying and failing not to let the disquiet grow.

“Sam?”

Sam shakes his head with a sharp inhale. “It’s not right,” he says. He tries to look Castiel in the eye and fails. He settles for speaking to Castiel’s shoulder. “You shouldn’t be held here against your will. Not if you were doing what you thought was right. Naomi, whoever she is. She was wrong.”

Castiel’s lips are curling up at their edges. “That’s very generous of you.”

Sam manages to look Castiel in the eyes this time. “I know what that’s like,” he says. His voice is hard. “To have family tell you something, and you know it’s not right. That it’s not what you want.” His words start to stumble out. “That’s why I left my dad and brother, you know. They wanted me to live like a hunter, always on the road, always eating crap food and living in motels, killing any monster without even stopping to _think_ if it’s the right thing to do.” Sam shakes his head. “I wanted to leave. And when my dad found out what I was planning to do, he…you know.” Sam sighs. “Dean helped me, at least. I was going to get to California and go to Stanford until…”

“Until here.”

Sam shrugs, abruptly embarrassed, and drops his head to contemplate the grass between his feet. A light touch at his shoulder makes him look back up with start. Castiel pulls his hand away.

“Thank you for telling me that,” he says. Sam nods. Castiel leans back. “Would you like some food?” Sam nods again. Together, they stand, and Sam’s arm brushes Castiel’s. Sam doesn’t react to the small spark that shoots through his arm. They move toward the house together.

***

The next three days progress in much the same way. Sam wakes up, he eats the breakfast waiting for him on the kitchen table, he goes out to find Castiel, they work around the property, sometimes they talk, and when Sam goes to bed, he does it with the expectation that he’ll wake up to see the white fire coming through his window and that he’ll work to ignore the splash of unease so he can roll back over and leave it be. It works well enough.

Sam had initially assumed Castiel accompanied him while he worked out of a sense of responsibility. But by the third morning, as they mop the flagstones with the door propped open to let in fresh air, Sam begins to wonder if Castiel simply enjoys the work and the company. Sam can only imagine that it became boring, being trapped in a gilded cage where nothing happens. Sam wonders if he’s the first real visitor Castiel has had.

He asks on that third morning, while they perch on the lower steps and watch the flagstones dry; two buckets and mops sit in the corners. After Sam asks, Castiel hums as if trying to come up with a satisfactory answer.

“You’re first one to enter,” Castiel says at length. He sits two steps above Sam and has his elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped. “Others have come to speak to me the way Crowley did. Standing right at the border, not coming in.” Castiel makes a grim-sounding half laugh. “They don’t want to be in here with me.”

Sam, leaning back and with his elbows propped on the step behind him, frowns and cranes his neck to peer up at Castiel. “Are they afraid of you?”

Castiel seems surprised by the question. “After a fashion. The demons don’t come in because they know I would smite them. My brothers and sisters…” Castiel rubs at his chin. “I know of plenty who could beat me in a fight, if it came to that. So that’s not it. I think they’re afraid I’d corrupt them.”

“Oh.” Sam looks forward again, biting his lip. “That’s…huh.”

“What?”

“I guess that’s disappointing to hear.” Sam keeps his eyes on the billowing curtains. “That they treat you like this because of one incident of disobedience.”

“Angels are warriors, Sam,” Castiel says patiently. “We must follow orders. I broke my orders. I had to be punished.”

“You really believe that?”

“I’m sorry?”

“You really believe you deserve to be in here? Just because you didn’t want to hurt someone you didn’t think deserved it?” Castiel is silent. “I’m just saying,” Sam presses. “I always liked Christianity because of the ideas of mercy. Of forgiveness. Of love. Sounds like you were exhibiting that better than the people who locked you up.”

Castiel continues to not speak, and Sam is afraid he’s become too brash. He doesn’t dare look behind him.

Finally: “I might be lying to sway your opinion,” Castiel says. Sam grins slightly.

“Are you?”

“No.”

“Is that a lie?”

This time, Castiel’s voice has a note of humor. “No.”

“Well then.” Sam flexes his feet. “Besides, even if you were lying about why you’re in here, you’ve been, you know, very decent to me. You healed me. That counts for something.”

“I don’t—“ Castiel cuts himself off as if thinking better of what he’s about to say. “Thank you,” he says instead.

“Sure.”

***

Sam doesn’t ask whether he’s allowed to leave, though not because it’s somehow slipped his mind. He knows, eventually, he has to go. He has a full ride waiting for him at Stanford. But it’s quiet here. There’s flowers and warm breezes and simple work and good food. Maybe Sam is being stupid, succumbing to it just because it’s comfortable. But he’s spent so much of the last few years not feeling quite right, and finally, he feels at peace. So, sue him. He’s going to take advantage of it.

He starts to lose track of the days, and in that time he and Castiel clean out the shed, paint it with fresh sealant, wash the stone benches in the garden, spread fresh mulch in the flower beds, and handfuls of other small tasks. Every night, Sam goes to bed with muscles that ache pleasantly, and he wakes up sometime around one or two in the morning to icy air and the pale firelight across the floor. He hasn’t gone outside again since the night that Castiel had to heal him, but once he creeps to the window and kneels beside it. He crosses his arms on the windowsill and leans his forehead against the chilled glass to watch the bright, pale column stride across the lilac fields and eventually disappear from view.

“So, where do you go at night?” Sam asks the next morning while he and Castiel split and stack firewood. The task could have been pointless, except that Sam has definitely noticed that the pile decreases on nights that they have multiple fires going at once. Castiel, who is taking his turn with the ax, pauses to heft the tool in one hand. He has both his coat and his jacket off, and he almost looks naked with nothing on but his white shirt and tie, the sleeves rolled halfway up his forearm.

“There’s nowhere _to_ go,” he says.

“So, what, you’re just taking a walk?” Sam asks.

“More or less.”

Sam nods and bends to collect several split logs. “So, how far do the flowers go?”

“Quite far,” Castiel says. He swings his axe as if he’s done with the conversation. Sam stays where he is and watches the axe head bite into a log with a thick _thwap_.

“Could I go back there sometime?” Sam asks. Castiel straightens again, and this time he looks troubled.

“There’s nothing there, Sam,” he says in a quiet, earnest voice. “It would be a waste of your time.”

Sam lifts his chin slightly. “Okay,” he says. Castiel nods, satisfied, and lifts his axe again. This time, it cleaves the log into two neat pieces. When Sam does finally move, it’s done slowly.

***

That night, Sam dips in and out of sleep fitfully. He’s wrenched into waking at the usual time, and this time he doesn’t bother looking for the light coming through his window. He methodically dresses himself in warm clothes and leaves the room with quiet, steady footfalls. He picks his way down the stairs and out of the house, and when he rounds the house’s corner, he doesn’t aim for the column still burning fairly close to the house. He goes to one of the garden’s benches and takes a seat, his hands braced on his thighs. He watches the column weave through the lilacs. It had been hard before, but familiarity has made it possible for him to appreciate that the column—no, Castiel. That Castiel is pretty incredible like this, the same way a volcano or an avalanche is incredible.

“You’re drawn to that sort of stuff, Sammy,” says a Dean-sounding echo in Sam’s head. He ignores it.

Sam only stands when Castiel is well into the distance, about as big as Sam’s hand. Then, Sam pushes open the garden gate and pads down to the lilac field. He moves between the rows of pale lavender flowers, his fingers brushing them with every other step. He finds a pace so that Castiel remains a small distance away but not too far away to lose. And then Sam settles into walking, enjoying the calm night and the smell of lilacs everywhere around him.

When he thinks to look behind him, he’s startled by how the house is a distant prick of yellow light. Sam looks ahead, and besides Castiel, the horizon is dominated by acres of unchanging flowers. Same to his right and to his left. It’s unnerving, but at least Sam was expecting it. He can keep moving.

Overhead, the night sky wheels through the constellations. Ahead, Castiel moves like a ship on water. Sam loses himself in both of them, letting the motion of one leg moving in front of the other become as automatic as breathing.

Until finally, at some unknown point, Sam realizes that Castiel has stopped moving. Sam stops too; his legs tingle in response to his sudden stillness. Nothing moves. There’s no breeze to shift the flowers; even the air feels like it’s slightly more solid than it’s supposed to be. And then, with a slight flicker, the glowing column disappears. Sam starts; he opens his mouth to shout Castiel’s name.

“Sam.”

Castiel’s voice carries too perfectly, and it’s as if he’s standing right beside Sam. Sam squints, and there, he can see the outline of the Castiel he’s more familiar with, the one in the trench coat and with the mussed hair. Sam sighs and starts walking again. Castiel waits for him to approach, hands in his pockets. When Sam draws closer, he can see that Castiel is watching him with something between fondness and exasperation. Sam pauses a few paces from Castiel.

“Sorry,” he says, and he almost means it.

Castiel tilts his head. “You’re not.”

Sam does his best to look chagrined. “I learned my lesson, right? I stayed back.”

“It’s still dangerous.”

“And stupid, yeah, I know.” Sam shrugs. “I was curious, that’s all.”

“Of course you were,” Castiel says around a sigh. He jerks his head. “Well then. Come along. There’s not much more to walk.”

Sam hadn’t been expecting this, but he takes it nonetheless, bounding forward to fall into step beside Castiel. They start walking again, and every so often their shoulders bump up against one another.

“I’m sorry if I was being rude,” Sam says at length.

“Rude?”

“Well, I interrupted your walk.”

“It’s just a habit, to be honest,” Castiel admits. “When I was first placed in here, I spent a long time testing the boundaries, trying to find weak points. There were none, of course. But the walks became comforting, and I kept doing them.” Sam is abruptly put in mind of a lion pacing its enclosure at a cramped zoo.

“So do you usually look like that?” Sam asks. He gestures. “Tall and…and very bright.”

“Yes,” Castiel says. “Though when you arrived, this place bullied me into adopting a more acceptable shape. It was very insistent.”

Sam jerks his head in Castiel’s direction. “You mean I forced you into this?”

“Don’t be silly, of course not. I adopted this form because I’m not interested in harming you. And, as I said, because this place was insistent.”

“Is it a hassle?” Sam presses.

Castiel shrugs. “It’s not painful or especially difficult, if that’s what you’re asking. You shouldn’t worry.”

Sam nods slowly, aware that Castiel could be lying and Sam wouldn’t have any way of really telling. So he settles back into silence and focuses on keeping with Castiel’s pace.

He loses track of how long they walk. He focuses more on the damp lightning smell lingering around Castiel and how he’s very warm when their shoulders brush. He has avalanches of questions tumbling around his brain, but it doesn’t seem appropriate to ask most of them.

At some point, Sam glances up and realizes with a small start that the flowers brushing against his hips are now daffodils and that there’s a yellow light shining a mile or so ahead of them. He turns to Castiel, who is watching him with a resigned expression.

“It’s only the house, Sam,” he says to Sam’s expression. Sam blinks and peers ahead of them.

“You sure? We never turned around.”

“Certain.”

Sure enough, after another twenty minutes of walking, Sam can make out the house’s shape. Ten minutes after that, they’re rapidly approaching the gray ribbon of road and the fences that line it on either side. Sam glances around as if expecting to find the house behind him as well, but all he can see is rows of daffodils. He gets a sick twist in his stomach when he imagines Castiel stalking this same path over and over again in the beginning.

Finally, they reach the fence and climb over it. Castiel continues to the gate, but Sam pauses in the middle of the road. He gazes at the pavement and the filmy white divider lines as they bend into the distance. He can feel Castiel watching him. Wood suddenly creaks. Sam turns and realizes Castiel has climbed the fence and is now perched on the top rail. Castiel tilts his head in invitation. Sam climbs on the next rail over, so the top of a fence post sits between him and Castiel. He kicks the back of his heels against the fence and tilts his head back to stare up at the navy blue sky studded with stars. His chest feels very large and simultaneously very full, and he’s somehow hyperaware of his own body flooded with blood and firing neurons, and how the wood is rough under his fingers and how Castiel is unbearably warm at his shoulder.

“I’m sorry.”

Sam drops his head with a swell of vertigo. Castiel is staring down the road like he expects something to appear any minute, though Sam hasn’t seen any cars besides Crowley’s in the entire time he’s been here.

“What for?” Sam asks. His voice sounds too thick and close, like he isn’t talking outside but in a small, padded room.

Castiel exhales hard and pulls his attention away from the road. “That you were held here against your will. I understand how…how galling it can be.”

Sam ducks his head briefly and runs a hand through his hair. “It’s my fault,” he says. “I ate the plum.”

“It shouldn’t have been like that, though,” Castiel says. His voice is hard. “They designed this place so that its key purpose is to deny freedoms. It does its best to provide comforts, but it can’t help that it’s primarily a cage. You got caught up in that when you shouldn’t have.”

Sam has the absurd urge to tell Castiel to keep his voice down in case…what? He hurts the feelings of a vaguely sentient location? Sam grips at the wood of the fence rail.

“Were you telling the truth?” Sam asks in a low voice. “When you said I needed to work to pay for what I took?”

“Yes,” Castiel says. “This is a cage designed for an angel. Something as small as a soul could have walked in and then back out fairly easily. Eating fruit uninvited, though, Like I said, that invokes old rules. You became tangled.” Castiel’s face tightens. “But you’re still only a small soul. You can leave, Sam, I swear.”

“Ok.” Sam nods slowly. He hesitates before asking, “Could I help you escape?”

“What?”

“Yeah, maybe I could help you get out.” Sam is rapidly warming to the idea. “I could sneak you out somehow. Or once I get out, could I help from the outside?”

Castiel stares at him before his expression grows soft. “Thank you. But that’s not possible.”

“Why not?”

“Sam.” Castiel stops, looking pained. “Sam,” he says again. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but it’s like a beetle offering to save an oak from being cut down.” Sam deflates, remembering the sheer size and power of the great, bright column.

“Yeah,” Sam says. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

“I appreciate your sentiment,” Castiel says gently. “It’s well taken.”

Sam doesn’t reply, instead examining Castiel. The dark mussed hair, the blue eyes edges with deep bags, the underlying smell of damp lightning.

“Sam?”

“Sorry. You’re just…”

Sam leans over, and Castiel doesn’t seem to understand what’s happening when Sam presses his lips against his. Castiel’s lips are slightly chapped and too warm; the damp lightening smell is powerful this close up. Sam pulls away, caught between giddy and embarrassed. Castiel looks bewildered, but as Sam watches, Castiel’s expression shifts into something blank, like those first few days. Dread pushes its way into Sam.

“Shit,” Sam blurts. “I shouldn’t have—“

“It’s fine,” Castiel says in too smooth a voice. He blinks once and takes a deep breath. “You should try and get some sleep.”

Sam’s heart plummets into his shoes. For several seconds, he doesn’t move at all. Then, slowly, he shifts his weight and slides off of the fence. His knees jar when he lands. Castiel slips off too, much more gracefully. Sam wants to explain himself, wants to apologize enough that Castiel will see it was just a misunderstanding and then they can stay perched on the fence and just talk. But Castiel is still blank, and Sam has no choice but to half raise a hand.

“Night,” he says.

Castiel nods.

Sam turns and shuffles to the gate; it opens as soon as his hand brushes it. He makes his way down the driveway. He tells himself he’s not going to look back, but he does after several steps, and that’s when he sees Castiel on the other side of the gate, framed by the night sky and the road and the swathes of daffodils. Then Sam turns forward again and moves as fast as he can toward the house, trying to ignore how tight his chest has become.

***

Sam wakes the next morning to late morning sunlight. It takes him a moment to remember why he has a heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach, and he groans without meaning to. He shifts, and something heavy clunks to the floor. Sam jerks to a sit and finds a book on the floor beside his bed. Sam tosses back the covers and scoops the book up. It’s the anthology of Celtic faerie tales he’d read on that rainy day a few weeks ago. A slip of white paper sticks out of the top, and Sam tugs it out with fumbling fingers. When he unfolds it, he finds several lines of beautiful looping handwriting.

_Sam,_

_I believe that if you go to the road and start walking to your right, if you don’t stop and don’t look behind you, you’ll find yourself on the edge of Carterhaugh. I suggest you do this as soon as you can; it’s not safe for you to stay here. I think things are about to change very drastically. Remember, **do not stop, do not look behind you** , not until you know you’re out of Carterhaugh. Please know that I’m sorry you became entangled in this place, but also know that I feel very lucky to have met you._

The note isn’t signed. Sam rereads it several times, and it’s impossible to distinguish the feelings coursing through him. His fingers are trembling lightly. He blinks hard; something is stinging the bridge of his nose. He folds up the note and stuffs it in his pocket then hurries out of the room. He slams against the bannister and shouts, “Castiel!”

He waits one, two, three heartbeats. Nothing.

“Damnit!” Sam bellows. “You said you’d come!”

Nothing.

“Castiel!”

Nothing.

“Castiel, please!”

The next hour is consumed by Sam haphazardly searching the house, then the garden, then the property for Castiel. And he has no idea how Castiel can hide himself so effectively, unless he isn’t here at all, which implies he lied to Sam about being trapped here, and at that point, Sam has to shut down the line of thinking before it strangles him.

It’s midday when he finds himself standing by the gate, staring at the spot where he last saw Castiel last night as if willing him to appear. He shifts his gaze to the road. It looks no different than it ever has; he can’t imagine what has changed between last night and this morning. He wonders if he really would be able to start walking, if he really would reach the real world again. He is startled to realize he’s not sure he wants to go. Except no, he does, he knows that he does. It’s just Castiel. Sam doesn’t want to never see him again.

Sam turns from the gate and moves back to the house, much more slowly this time. He enters the house through the kitchen; he finds a steaming plate of chicken and rice set out like an apology. Sam sways at the doorway, but he accepts the food, taking the plate outside to the garden and eating slowly, the plate balanced on his lap. He stays there long after the empty plate has been set aside and whisked away, staring at the flower heads bob at him in a warm breeze. He remains there, hands splayed on his knees, back straight, until the sun starts to sink toward the horizon. When the air temperature starts to drop, he goes inside and pushes through the cold, heavy air to his bedroom. He grabs one of the blankets from the bed, wraps it around his shoulders, and drags a small stool to the window. He settles down, leans his head against the chilled glass, and watches the lilac field.

The glowing column doesn’t appear that night.

***

The next day is caught in a sleep-deprived fog. Sam sleeps for most of the morning, eats the oatmeal he finds in the kitchen, and searches the property a second time. He tries not to be disappointed when he doesn’t find anything at all, when he sees that absolutely nothing has been moved in his absence. After that, he ventures into the lilac field and starts walking. Within an hour, he rounds to the house again without having seen anything besides flowers. He considers how long it would take to search the entirety of the flower fields.

He tries to do it the next day, after another sleepless night spent waiting for the column to appear. He tries to keep himself oriented by the directions of the rows, but at several points he’s deeply convinced that he’s lost. There’s a point in mid-afternoon when he finds himself among golden, brown-faced sunflowers taller than him, sun streaming into his face, the air smelling of soil and growing things, and he has the absurd urge to break down and cry right there.

He finds the house again by chance, spotting its bulk across a field of pansies. He reaches it by dusk. He eats a few bites of the dinner offered to him without really tasting it, then goes to his room and curls up on top of his bed sheets. He falls into sleep immediately.

The next morning, Sam doesn’t rouse from his bed for hours. He listens to the house creak around him, listens to his own breathing. He stays there until midday, and then slowly eases himself up. It takes him another several minutes to stand and fetch his backpack leaning against the opposite wall. He finds the book of Celtic faerie tales, and he pulls out the slip of paper. He rereads the note three times. He keeps his lips pressed together and his back straight. Then, slowly, he returns the note and book and moves to the bathroom. He splashes water on his face and runs a brush through his hair. He searches the bathroom and bedroom for his belongings and packs them up. He wonders if he should leave the book behind; he doesn’t; he keeps it wedged deep in his backpack.

Then he makes the bed, slings the backpack over one shoulder, and leaves the bedroom. The sound of the door closing sounds more like a slam, and the sound hangs strangely in the air. Sam ventures down the stairs, and the air seems to gather and press against his face. When he goes into the kitchen, the air only thickens, and he wonders if the place is trying to say something. There’s a plastic baggie sitting on the table; inside is what appears to be a sandwich. Sam smiles slightly and picks it up, placing it inside his jacket pocket.

“Thanks,” he murmurs. The kitchen curtains shift like it’s trying to wave him away. Sam lets his hand rest on the rough doorframe for a moment before stepping into the garden. He pauses then, eyes drawn to the stone structure and its garlands of roses. He wonders what he would find if he went inside. He’s not sure that he should.

So he exits the garden. He walks down the driveway and through the orchard. He pushes open the gate, closes it behind him. He’s turned to his right and taken several steps before he remembers that he’s not supposed to look behind him and simultaneously realizes that he wants to, desperately. He closes his eyes and keeps walking, his feet pounding hard against the pavement.

***

For the first half hour, he keeps waiting for the house to rise into sight yet again, is mostly expecting it to happen. But he keeps passing flowers, and eventually he wonders if he’s doomed to be stuck in-between, not able to leave, not able to find the house again, just confronted with wave after wave of flowers, like being adrift in an ocean. Maybe he waited too long; he should have left the morning he found the note.

Sam is just starting to grow convinced that he’s dug himself into a truly impossible hole when he sees, far ahead of him, a glint of metal. Sam squints through the afternoon sunlight, but the glint is gone. He picks up his pace. It’s not quite hope coursing through him, but it’s close.

The funny part is that he barely notices when the world ripples around him. But one minute he’s facing the usual acres and acres of flowers, and the next, he’s between two quiet fields dusted with soybean seedlings. Sam stops hard, his shoes skidding. He whips around without thinking at all, and the fields expand behind him. A few farmhouses and silos sit in the distance.

“You’re damn lucky you did that on the right side of the border,” drawls a dry voice. Sam whirls forward again, and Crowley raises his eyebrows in response. He’s leaning against the flank of the same car as before.

“What are you—“ Sam gets distracted and turns around again. Still soybeans.

“I’m here on a favor,” Crowley says, enough disdain in his voice to convey what he thinks of his generosity. Sam turns to him to scowl. “And you already made me wait, so I have very little patience for more dawdling.” He moves to the car’s driver seat. “Get on in.”

“You’re a demon,” Sam blurts.

“And you just spent weeks with a criminal,” Crowley says, unimpressed. “Now is not the time for you to suddenly gain a sense of self-preservation. Get in.”

Sam’s eyes narrow. “What favor?” he asks.

Crowley sighs, hand resting on the car door handle. “Some time ago, Castiel helped me out of a…situation. In turn, he’s now asked me to ensure that you reach Carterhaugh border and go on your merry way.” He smiles grimly. “And if I harm you in any way, he assures me that he will find a way to turn me into so much grease on the pavement. So, you ought to feel quite secure.”

Sam stares at him. He’s tempted to decline, but his common sense prevails. He still has the knife, after all. He nods stiffly and moves to the car’s passenger side. A half minute later, Crowley is peeling down the road.

Sam keeps a hard grip on his backpack. His stomach is in absolute knots, which makes no sense because theoretically he’s almost home free. He shoots charged glances at Crowley, who eventually rolls his eyes.

“Stop that.”

“Why did Castiel ask _you_ for help.”

“Is that a serious question?” Crowley asks. He glances at Sam, and his eyebrows shoot up. “Oh, dear,” he says mildly, though with a definite amused undertone. “It was serious.”

“Would you—“

“Because he is so thoroughly fallen from heaven’s good graces that he’s just about on the same level as the hellspawn,” Crowley interrupts cheerfully. “Honestly, you think any angel in their right minds would deal with him more than they have to? And most demons are too frightened shitless by any angel to approach him. So, I’m all he has left.”

Sam’s hands tangle with one another. His heart is pounding in his throat.

“Can you tell me what he did?” he asks.

“Did he not tell you?”

“I want to hear your version.”

Crowley glances at him again, though this time with more thoughtfulness than anything else. He clears his throat.

“It’s not as if I was there to witness it, understand. Only heard the story later on.” Sam nods once, stiffly. Crowley hums. “I believe that Castiel—and Anael as well—has often had a reputation for being…difficult. Rumor is that he protested the famous massacre of first sons way back in Egypt. Things like that. But I guess he and Anael were good enough at what they did that they only ever got slaps, maybe some reeducation—“

“Reeducation?” Sam interrupted.

“Quite common up there, as I understand it.” Crowley eyes Sam, who exhales hard and indicates that Crowley should continue. “I believe that the final straw was what happened a few decades ago. Do you know of Leviathan?”

“The sea monster?”

“The name’s older than that. Refers to a whole class of ancient monsters from the far, far beginning. They’re still around, lurking in purgatory. Now, if they had a mind to, they could very well force their way into this world. Heaven would like to avoid that happening. So an arrangement has been in place for millennia now. The Leviathan stay in purgatory and in return, once every seven years, heaven offers them a tithe.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sam asks warily.

“It varies. But most of the time, the Leviathan receive a soul.”

“ _What_?” Sam demands.

“Souls are fairly valuable.”

“No, but _human_ souls?”

“What other kind of soul is there?” Crowley asks disparagingly. He glances at Sam and snorts. “No need to look so shocked.”

“But…angels are feeding souls to monsters?”

Crowley looks hard at Sam this time. “You don’t have much experience with angels, do you?” Sam shakes his head mutely. “Believe me,” Crowley says, waving a hand. “It’s exactly the kind of thing heaven would do. Now, Castiel and Anael, as I understand it, were called upon to harvest a soul for this tithe. They refused. And when heaven attempted to punish them, Anael fell, and Castiel slew a brother.”

“He killed another angel?”

“Indeed. High offence, that.” Crowley casually flicks nonexistent dust from his sleeve. “Did that not make it into Castiel’s version?”

“No,” Sam mutters, frowning at the dashboard. His stomach is tightening. He runs a hand over his face. “So…so they’re going to make him rot because of this.”

“Mm, I doubt that.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Crowley smiles grimly at the road. “If heaven wants you gone, they eliminate you. Clean and simple. But they’re keeping him around, close at hand. To me, that sets off a few flags.”

“What kinds of flags?” Sam demands.

Crowley is silent for several seconds. “Personally, I think they’re planning on using him for the next tithe. You have to admit, it would be an elegant way to finally get rid of him.”

Sam presses back into his seat. He’s wants, faintly, to throw up. He left. He left Castiel behind. He should have stayed, tried to help him, tried to protect him, somehow. And instead Sam left. He turns to Crowley.

“You need to take me back.”

“Excuse me?”

“You need to turn this car around and take me back to—“

“And do you have any idea what happens if I do that?” Crowley asks, sounding annoyed now. “I swore that you’d make it out of Carterhaugh. When people like me break an oath, _things_ happen. Very bad things.”

“If I explain to him that—“

“That’s not the point,” Crowley cuts in. “There’s rules, ones far beyond my or Castiel’s or anyone’s control. I _am_ taking you over that border, and if you want to turn around and run right back in, that’s your own feckless decision. But until then, I’m not putting myself on the line for some lovesick human child.”

Sam can feel himself trembling. His hand shoots out and yanks at the car door, but of course the door is locked. Without thinking, he reaches under his shirt and draws the knife. He whips it out, stopping it a few inches from Crowley’s throat. The car doesn’t so much as drop in speed, but Sam bulls forward by snarling, “Turn around.”

Crowley makes an unimpressed noise. He pulls one hand from the steering wheel and, almost casually, passes it over Sam’s eyes.

The world goes black.


	3. Chapter 3

Sam comes to in a bed.

It’s not his bed, not the bed in the red brick house, and he can tell because the sheets don’t smell like mothballs and faint detergent and there’s no soft sunlight filtering over plaster walls. Instead, he’s on a sagging mattress with sheets that smell slightly damp. Sam scrambles to a sit and blinks around at a small, standard motel room. It could be any of the thousands of motel rooms he’s stayed in, and for a couple terrible moments, he wonders if he ever got on that Greyhound bus in the first place.

But no. There’s only one bed, and his backpack is neatly tucked into the corner. Sam forces himself through several shaky breaths then eases from the bed. He goes through his backpack first, but everything is there, including Castiel’s note tucked into the book of Celtic faerie tales. Sam slings the backpack over one shoulder and warily opens the door. He squints out into a perfectly standard motel parking lot. Across the lot, a small stand of shrubs separates the lot from a road with a steady stream of traffic. Sam steps out and follows the line of doors until he reaches the central office.

When he enters, a woman somewhere in her late 30s is typing on an old computer. She glances up.

“Hi,” Sam rasps and has to clear his throat. “Uh, sorry, I…” He trails off. His thoughts feel completely scattered; it takes effort to line them up. He comes up with the first question. “Where am I?”

The woman’s eyebrows shoot up. Sam is sure she’s making a couple dozen assumptions about him on the spot, but he couldn’t possibly care less.

“Winterset,” she says. “Iowa.”

It takes Sam a moment to recognize why the name is familiar. And then he realizes it’s the town where he left the Greyhound, where he started walking along the highway. He’s back where he started. The realization should punch him in the gut, but he’s feeling far too numb, far too removed from his own body, to register it.

“I…okay.” Sam runs a hand through his hair. “Okay. Um. There was a guy? British, short—“

“Yeah, he was here.” The woman watches him with interest now. “He dropped you off. Paid for your room.”

“Oh.” Crowley must be long gone by now, his debt paid. Sam swallows. “Listen, is there a Carterhaugh County around here?”

“Um, no,” the woman says. “We’re in Madison County. No Carterhaughs I know of.”

“Right.” Sam nods slowly. His head is a mass of molasses. “I’d like to check out, then.” The woman nods back. She checks him out quickly, and Sam leaves while feeling her eyes boring holes into the back of his head.

When Sam steps outside again, it smells utterly like late winter; cold, dry air and the lingering bite of snow. No hint of damp spring or of flowers. Sam crosses the road to a small diner and sequesters himself in a far corner. The waitress approaches; he orders something that he can’t recall seconds later when the waitress walks away. He feels emptied, as if someone has scooped him out and shoved him back in without bothering to keep anything in order. He supposes he could blame Crowley, but he’s unsure if this is a result of what Crowley did, or if it’s something more. Maybe anyone who’s ventured into Carterhaugh feels this way after emerging again. Maybe he spent too long there.

The waitress returns with a turkey club. Sam eats a few bites but it tastes wrong somehow. He’s been hungry enough times to know that food is food and he shouldn’t be wasting it, but he finds himself rising from the table and paying at the register without bringing the sandwich with him. He doubts he could bring himself to eat it at all.

He emerges from the diner and tries to orient himself before he starts walking. It doesn’t take all that long to find the Greyhound station. It’s just as he left it, and he has a nagging suspicion that if he were to consult a calendar, he’d find that he hadn’t been gone for weeks at all. He pauses at the station because, just as before, he has the town behind him and the highway in front. His mind clears a little with that. He starts walking again, delving into farmland with a ragged hope pounding in his chest.

He walks for several hours. He turns down a few offers to give him a lift. His feet start to ache deep in their arches, but he doesn’t let himself slow down.

And then, sometime around mid-afternoon, he stops in front of a sign telling him he’s entering Adair County. Something hot crawls up his throat, but Sam manages to keep it under control. He only swipes the back of his hand across his eyes before hunching up his shoulders and continuing to walk.

When a dark blue VW pulls up a half hour later and an elderly couple asks him if he’d like to accompany them to Omaha, he says yes.

***

It takes another week to reach Bobby’s place in South Dakota. Sam calls him from a pay phone two towns over, and it takes him too long to fumble out an explanation that he’s here without his dad or brother, that he needs to be picked up. Bobby comes. Of course he does. He rolls up in his ancient truck and he doesn’t say anything when Sam clambers in, just looks him up and down with an appraising eye then says, “Damn it, boy,” and reaches over to hug him. Sam starts at the contact, but he leans into the hug and has to work hard not to break down into tears.

They drive back in relative silence, the only sounds the quiet burbling of some AM radio talk show and the wipers skittering across the windshield every so often in response to a soft rain. Sam watches the dim landscape, sways with the truck hitting potholes, and feels something hard at his edges finally start to crack and peel away, allowing the soft things inside him to finally breathe. He feels as if a thick fog is starting to burn away.

The house is just as Sam remembers it. He sits at the same kitchen table that his dad and Bobby sat at over a decade ago, drinking beer and talking about a place called Carterhaugh. While Bobby pulls out a can of chili and complains about the latest escapades of some young buck of a hunter named Pete, Sam glances through the kitchen doorway and finds the space under the stairs where he and Dean had read comic books. Bobby’s filled the spot with boxes of papers, and for some reason that makes Sam feel as if he’s lost something.

He eats the chili while Bobby sits across from him, arms folded on the tabletop. The kitchen is dimly lit; it smells like old wood and ground in smoke and spices, and it’s so close. It’s so damn close.

“The bedroom upstairs is ready to go,” Bobby says when Sam has finished eating. “Just let me get on some clean sheets.” Sam nods. He should explain his presence, though he suspects Bobby can already make an educated guess. Sam opens his mouth, finds something heavy lodged in his throat, closes his mouth.

“Sam?”

“Has dad called?”

Bobby is silent for a moment. “No,” he says, and Sam’s insides cave. “But Dean has.”

Sam lifts his eyes. “He has?”

“At least once every two or three days. He figures you’d end up here soon enough. Wanted me to call him as soon as you showed up.”

Sam blinks. “He told you—“

“Enough.”

Sam nods. “Have you called him yet?”

“Figured you might want to.”

Sam sighs and closes his eyes briefly. “Can I do it tomorrow?”

“Sure, kid. No problem.” Bobby stands, making the kitchen floor squeal. “Let me get those clean sheets on.”

Sam remains where he is while Bobby leaves the kitchen and slowly climbs the stairs. Sam can hear his movements by the faint creaks and thumps overhead. He stares down at his hands that are curled together in his lap. He closes his eyes and inhales, and he can pretend he’s back there.

Then Bobby comes back down the stairs, and Sam thanks him again before going up to his usual bedroom. It’s the one with the two twin beds; when Sam was very small, he and Dean would share one while their dad slept in the other. More recently, dad would sleep on the couch and each brother would get his own bed. And now it’s just Sam with his backpack and his clothes stinking from traveling too long without having the cash to spare for a laundromat.

He uses the bathroom and changes into sweatpants and a t-shirt. He sits on the edge of the bed and sifts through his backpack, trying to take stock of the laundry he’ll need to do. He finds the book of Celtic faerie tales wrapped in a soft black shirt. His heart starts to hammer in his chest because somehow, a part of him doesn’t want to look at this book, doesn’t want any kind of proof that it all had happened. He can see the corner of a slip of paper, and he wants to throw up. He shoves the book deep into his backpack, zips the backpack shut, and hurries to bury himself under the covers.

***

Sam does call Dean the next day. He does it while Bobby is out making a grocery run, and while he listens to the other end ring, he feels caught between excitement and trepidation.

“Hello?” Dean’s voice says. Sam releases a rough exhale.

“Dean?”

“Sammy?” A shuffle. “Shit, Sam, is that you?”

“Yeah, I…yeah.” Sam realizes that his eyes are growing hot and impatiently wipes a hand across them. “I’m, uh. At Bobby’s.”

“About time,” Dean says. He probably means for it to sound scolding, but there’s too much relief. “Are you okay? How’s your money situation? Did anyone—“

“I’m fine,” Sam says. He’s smiling slightly. “I’ve been doing a few small jobs on the way here. I’m doing okay.”

“Okay,” Dean echoes. He doesn’t sound convinced.

“How’s dad?”

“Aw, jeeze, you had to bring that one up, didn’t you?” Dean huffs. “He’s, you know, being dad. Don’t see him much; he keeps chasing leads.” Pause. “I think he regrets—“

“Dean, stop,” Sam orders. “No, he doesn’t regret anything. Probably thrilled he’s finally gotten rid of me.”

“Would you shut the actual hell up?” Dean snaps.

“No, ‘cause I know you’re trying to convince me to come back, and it’s not happening. I’m done, Dean.”

Silence roars over the phone line, and Sam wonders if he’s stepped too far. Dean grunts.

“How’s Bobby doing?”

The sheer size of the olive branch startles Sam. Dean must be desperate to keep him on the phone. Sam wants to apologize, wants to explain that it’s not Dean’s job to fix whatever’s broken between Sam and their dad, that it never has been and that Dean deserves better. But he and Dean don’t talk like that, so instead Sam starts telling him about the house and how Bobby’s dog is getting older, and he tries to shove the things he can’t say in between the words. He’s sure that Dean hears.

Sam only hangs up when he hears Bobby’s truck coming down the driveway. He tells Dean that he’d better go because Bobby had been making noises that morning about having Sam help him clean out the gutters. Dean tells him to be careful. Sam says he will. When he hangs up, his chest feels scrubbed raw.

***

Sam doesn’t need to ask to know that he’s allowed to stay as long as he wants. He doesn’t plan on making it more than a month. He might have a long time before the semester starts at Stanford, but he wants to be well established in Palo Alto before he has to worry about the added pressure of schoolwork.

In the meantime, he does his best to get his bearings and help Bobby around the property. Bobby gives him space, for which Sam is inordinately grateful. He wonders if Bobby can tell that there’s more than just leaving dad that’s weighing on him. But if he suspects anything, he doesn’t voice it.

***

A few days after arriving at the house, Sam finally gets around to doing his laundry. He piles his jeans into the washing machine in Bobby’s dim, dusty basement, checking the pockets as he goes. He thrusts his hand into one pocket and his fingers bump against something small and hard. He pulls out a plum pit. A smear of dark brown is visible. Sam stands rooted in the spot, and he can see that his hand is shaking, but his whole body feels strangely far away. Sam thrusts the pit into the pockets of his current jeans and finishes the laundry.

He only lets himself pull the pit out again later that night, when he’s sequestered in his bedroom. He holds the pit up to the light and turns it slowly. It looks and feels real. He can still remember the way the plum was so bursting with juice he had to bend over so it would trickle into the thick grass. Sam slowly places the pit in his bedside table and rests his head in one hand, staring at it.

He stands without thinking; he moves across the bedroom to where his backpack is perched on a chair. He pulls out the book of Celtic faerie tales, weighs it in his hand. He carries it back to his bed and sinks into the mattress. The edge of paper is still peeking out of the top; he flips through the cover and the first few pages. He crosses the title page and then the table of contents, and his eyes fall on two words halfway down the page. Tam Lin. Page 43.

Sam bites at his lower lip and flips forward. When he pauses, he finds a woodcut showing a woman clutching a wolf. The wolf is snarling, its teeth inches from her throat. Sam shifts to the story and starts reading.

The bedroom is quiet while he scans the faded text; he can faintly hear Bobby moving around downstairs. It only takes ten minutes to read the story; it’s not one of the long ones. When he’s finished, Sam flips back and rereads the whole thing again. His heart is ramming against his ribs by the end; he can feel the blood all the way to the ends of his fingers. He stands, pointer finger slipped into the book to keep his place. He goes downstairs, heart still beating hard.

Bobby is in the living room, bent in front of the television. “Damn thing crapped out on me again,” Bobby calls out without looking up. “One of these days, I’m going to actually get a new one.”

“Bobby.”

Something in Sam’s voice makes Bobby jerk his head up. He examines Sam’s face and stands with cracking knees. Sam holds out the book slightly.

“You remember a long time ago, when me and Dean were little, you and dad were working a hunt? And he mentioned Carterhaugh?”

Bobby’s expression grows wary. He moves to the couch to sit and indicates Sam should do the same. Sam sinks onto a nearby armchair, book still tight in his hand.

“I don’t remember that specifically,” Bobby says. “But I know about Carterhaugh.” He eyes Sam. “Why’re you asking?”

Sam rubs his thumb along the book’s worn spine. “You know about Tam Lin?”

“Scottish ballad, yeah.”

“You know how it goes?”

Bobby looks like he wants to ask where this is going, but he must decide to indulge Sam because he shrugs and says, “Guy named Tam Lin lives in Carter Hall in the woods, and people say he punishes anyone gets too close. A girl named Janet gets curious and goes into the woods; she comes across Tam Lin, but they fall in love.” Bobby pauses. Sam waits. Bobby grunts and continues. “He tells her that he’s a prisoner, that he’s going to be sacrificed to the devil by the faerie queen. He says she can save him if she goes to the crossroads at midnight on all hallows eve. The faerie will be there, he says, and she’s to pull him off his horse. He warns her he’ll transform into things like wolves, lions, but she has to hang on. So Janet does it, she goes to the crossroads, she pulls him off his horse, she hangs on, she saves him. They live happily ever after.” Bobby pauses then, in an impressively even voice, says, “Something happen you want to tell me about?”

Sam leans back. “I went into a place called Carterhaugh County.”

Bobby stiffens. He deflates, runs a hand over his face. “Shit,” he murmurs. He peers at Sam. “ _Shit_ ,” he repeats with feeling. “How the hell did you get out?”

“I had some help.”

“From?”

Sam shifts. “An angel.”

Bobby lifts his chin ever so slightly. “You’re going to need to go back a few steps there.”

So Sam tells him. He explains walking into Carterhaugh County, finding the house, eating the plum, all the events that followed. He works to keep his voice even and measured. The entire time, his hands keep their death grip on the book. Bobby doesn’t interrupt, just listens with narrower and narrower eyes. When Sam finishes with the explanation of how he woke up in the hotel, silence falls over them so thickly Sam is tempted to keep talking.

“Do you believe me?” Sam asks when the silence gets to be too much. Bobby inhales abruptly and shifts on the couch.

“If you were trying to lie, you wouldn’t be pulling in angels, would you?” He sighs and clasps his hands, abruptly unclasps them; he makes a frustrated sound deep in his throat. “This uh...”

“Castiel.”

“Castiel. You want to go back to wherever he is, right?”

“I…I don’t know,” Sam admits. “I want to help him. But. Jesus. How am I supposed to help?”

Bobby looks grim. “Wouldn’t be safe,” he says. “Wouldn’t be easy.” He nods at the book in Sam’s hand. “But I guess you’ve got an outline.” Sam blinks.

“You think there’s actually some kind of…connection?”

Bobby shrugs. “Wouldn’t be surprised. Stories have a way of echoing.”

Sam frowns hard at the floor before looking up at Bobby again. “But I have no idea where Carterhaugh is.”

“You’re not supposed to,” Bobby says. “From what I’ve heard of it, you can’t really find a place like Carterhaugh. It finds you.”

“That’s beyond unhelpful.”

“Yeah, I know.”

They lapse into silence, and this time, neither seems to know how to pull out of it again.

***

Sam leaves Bobby’s place four days later. He doesn’t think he could have stayed much longer. After the conversation with Bobby, Sam’s legs keep humming at him to start walking again. So, he listens.

Bobby drives him south a few hours; they don’t talk much, mostly listen to staticky soft rock radio stations. Sam’s backpack is bulging this time with food, water, and extra supplies. Bobby had pressed a couple hundred dollars on Sam, too, and Sam hadn’t been confident enough in what the next few months would bring to turn it down.

Bobby drops him off at a charter bus depot. Maybe he knows Sam doesn’t have any plans to board a bus, and maybe that’s why he holds onto Sam a few seconds too long when they hug. He tells Sam that he has a good head on his shoulders, that he’d better use it. Sam nods and can’t think of what to say that doesn’t end with him flat out crying.

Sam lingers at the depot’s entrance until long after Bobby’s truck has winked out of existence. Then he turns to the spare country highway and, with a press of something very much like hope, he starts walking.

He has no idea what the rules are, whether he’s doomed to never find Carterhaugh again if he keeps expecting it to appear. He tries to keep his mind loose and unattached, focusing instead on the dry soil and long grasses that line the highway. He had started around mid afternoon. He walks well into evening, and then through nightfall, according to the watch Bobby insisted he keep. Sam’s feet and legs start to ache all over, but he’s too scared to stop walking at this point.

He does, finally, allow himself to stop sometime around midnight. He shuffles several yards from the road and performs a slow collapse into the soil, creating a small puff of dust. His feet are numb bricks attached to legs made of soft jelly. Sam leans back on his hands and blearily tips his head back. The sky is a soft underbelly of stars, overseen by a swollen white moon.

One of Sam’s hands feels for his pocket and pulls out the plum pit. He buries it in his fist then presses the fist to his mouth. He leans back, partially propped up by the backpack, and shuts his eyes. He listens to the wind slough through long, brittle grasses, the distant yips of what might be coyotes, the sound of his body shifting in the soil with every inhale and exhale. He doesn’t let himself doze off, but he sinks into a state of mind that’s slightly removed from the larger world. It’s quieter there.

He’s not sure what makes him aware that something has shifted. The air, maybe, the way it dampens and becomes green. Perhaps the way the rough grasses that brush against his arms soften into petals. But after a moment, Sam lurches up and yanks his eyes open, and then he makes a strangled sound when he finds himself sitting among a field of carnations. The night sky is the same, as is the dark highway, but there’s carnations surrounding him, and a fence a few feet away.

Sam doesn’t think, he just heaves himself to a stand, shoves the plum pit back into his pocket, stumbles over the fence and into the road, and starts running. His backpack thwacks steadily against him while he runs; his legs scream, but he can’t afford to listen to them. The carnations slide into tulips. The road starts to curve in a way that feels downright familiar.

The gate appears abruptly, almost without warning, and Sam comes close to sprinting right past it. He pushes it open and doesn’t register how it hadn’t been latched, how the fence stretching in either direction is weathered and sporting collapsed and rotting fence posts. Sam barely notices the way the grasses around the driveway are overgrown, nor that the shed at the bottom of the hill is all but collapsed. But he does notice the house, once he passes through the weedy orchard. He stops short; his feet slide across the gravel.

It’s hard not to notice the missing roof tiles, the broken windows, the faded paint and dinghy bricks. Sam starts moving again, this time timidly approaching the gate that marks the garden, or where the garden used to be, because now it’s a small jungle of flowers and weeds that have taken hold. He’s aware of his throat tightening dangerously, but he still makes himself push the rusted gate. It squeals like a living thing in pain.

The old stone pathway has long been swallowed up by plants, so Sam has to push his way through the morass by sense memory. Once he finds the moss-covered bench, he can orient himself toward where the back door should be. He can’t quite look directly at the house; it feels too much like looking at a dead body. Now that he’s moving slower, he realizes that the air is no longer cool and heavy. Instead, it’s sticky and uncomfortably warm, like the inside of a car in summer or the hot breath from a large mouth. With each inhale, Sam becomes aware of a faint, pungent smell of rot. When he finally finds the back door that leads into the kitchen, the smell has gathered itself into a stench, and Sam wonders with a sick feeling what he’d find if he pushed open the kitchen door. He finds he doesn’t have the heart to do it.

He turns slightly, trying to avoid gagging, and sees the stone structure.

It’s almost entirely buried beneath a mound of flyblown roses; the thorny vines grasp at the stones like living things. Sam swallows, but he moves toward the structure. He can’t tell if he imagines the vines shifting and tightening in response.

It takes some doing to find a way past the vines, and Sam’s skin and clothes catch on the thorns. When he stumbles into the structure, it’s no longer damp and cool, but dried and brittle like the husk of a dead insect. Sam’s boot rattles against a loose stone. He glances down and realizes the ground is scattered with fragments of stone. His stomach flips; he follows the fragments to the center of the structure, where the statue used to stand. Nothing stands there now, and the space has been overtaken by a hanging mass of vines. Sam bends, slowly, and picks up a chunk of white limestone. It’s cold and dead, and there’s not so much as a flutter of a pulse. Sam’s grip on the stone tightens until he can feel the edges bite into the meat of his palm, and he’s crying now, there’s no point holding it back, and his chest is slowly splitting open, and he wants to fold up and collapse.

He loses track of how long he stands there, swaying slightly, the chunk of limestone in his hand. When he does finally move, his limbs feel only loosely tied to the rest of him. He buries the chunk of limestone in the same pocket that holds the plum pit. He turns and eases his way back out of the structure. The bedraggled garden barely murmurs in a hot, sticky wind; the moon look too large and close overhead.

That’s when he hears the single, clear call of a trumpet.

Sam’s entire body flinches, and he twists around. The landscape is as still as before. He waits, not daring to breathe, and the second trumpet call is slightly fainter this time, but Sam’s head swivels in the direction where it originated. The lilac field. He’s certain of it.

Sam swallows hard and starts to push his way through the garden, ignoring the small tendrils that snag at his jeans. He doesn’t bother searching for the garden gate, just clambers over the iron fence and jogs into the lilac field. He keeps his ears strained, but the trumpet doesn’t sound again. He bows his head and keeps moving. Lilacs thwap against his shins, sending up sprays of pollen. The sickly sweet smell mixed with the hot, oppressive air makes it hard to breathe.

He doesn’t notice the lilac field changing at first, mostly because he knows by now that it’s not _supposed_ to change. Except then he stumbles across a bare patch of soil, a place without a perfect bush full of pale-purple flowers. It would be innocuous in a regular flower field, but here it makes Sam’s heart drop. He keeps going; it only takes ten minutes for him to find the next bare spot.

They keep appearing, growing larger and more numerous. The lilac bushes start to change too; they’re no longer identically full-bloomed; some are smaller and have fewer flowers, or their flowers are only partially open. This continues until the lilacs peter out completely. Sam crosses a strip of thin grass, goes down a shallow bank, and finds himself in the middle of a large dirt road. He finally stops, rotating in his place and trying to get his bearings. One side of the road is swathed in flowers; on the other, heavy, dark-barked trees crowd together. It’s so unlike what he expected that Sam ends up staring at the trees longer than he should. Sam wonders if this means the cage door has been left open. Maybe Castiel left on his own accord; maybe he found a way to escape.

Sam grips at the straps of his backpack with both hands and tries to line up his thoughts. Behind him is the shard of heaven; it has nothing left for him at this point. In front of him is a road leading to somewhere unknown; past that is a forest full of something even more utterly unknown. If he were to enter the forest, he’d be lost; he knows that. It has to be the road, then. Theoretically, he can always slip into the flower fields and find his way back to the house and then to the main road. It’s a good plan in his head, at least.

Sam thrusts his hand into his pocket to grab the chunk of stone and the plum pit, like good luck charms. He picks a direction and starts walking.

His feet quickly kick up a small fog of dust, and his shoes and lower part of his jeans become faded under a layer of dirt. He has the flowers on his right-hand side, the forest on the left side. From his right, hot, damp air rolls toward him in waves. At the same time, from his left, a cold, piercing fog drifts from the forest. The air from both sides has the edge of rot, either the rot of hot trash in the middle of the summer or the rot of something slimy and chilled-damp.

The night sky wheels slowly overhead without showing signs of surrendering to dawn. The moon seems to be getting larger the more often Sam glances up at it. He tries to stop looking.

The crossroad appears abruptly. Sam could tell himself it was obscured until the last minute by the flowers on one side and the trees on the other, but that doesn’t quite explain the fact that he’s halfway through the crossroad before he registers it. He pauses, trying to get his bearings. The air is still, almost anticipatory. Something clicks into place, and Sam nods slightly to himself before going to one corner of the crossroads, finding a bare patch of grass, sitting, and settling in to wait.

It doesn’t take long for something to happen, and Sam is pleased with himself for not visibly reacting when he realizes someone is standing across from him, at the other corner of the crossroads.

“Hey,” Sam says.

Crowley appraises him with a flat gaze, hands thrust deep in his pockets. “I sincerely hope you know what you’re doing.”

Sam makes a so-so motion with one hand. “What’re _you_ doing here?” he counters.

“I,” Crowley says, drawing himself up. “Am a crossroad demon. This is my realm.”

Sam frowns. “Even here?” he asks. “Or, is this still Carterhaugh?”

“More or less,” Crowley shrugs. He nods to the flowers. “A loose shard of heaven there.” He jerks his thumb at the forest behind him. “And the ragged edges of purgatory.” Sam looks into the woods with wary interest.

“Is that a coincidence?” he asks at length. “That the cage is right up against purgatory?”

“With the way Carterhaugh works, that’s a yes and a no.”

Sam nods slowly and drags his eyes back to Crowley. “Do you know if Castiel is okay?”

Crowley grunts. “Far from it.”

Sam ignores the flip in his gut. “But is he alive still?”

“Oh. Yes, he’s still fine in that sense. But his time is dwindling.”

“Am I in the right place?”

Crowley barks out a laugh. “You’ve figured it out, have you?”

“Have I?” Sam presses.

“If this is where Carterhaugh has placed you,” Crowley says, “Then it’s the right place. That’s the tricky thing.” Crowley exhales a thick cloud of vapor. “Though,” he adds quickly, “I’m not helping. Not worth my skin, and all my debts are paid and done.”

“But you’re going to watch,” Sam guesses.

“Naturally.”

Sam nods. They settle back into silence.

The next time Sam gives in and looks up at the sky, the moon hangs so massive over his head that he’s tempted to reach out and try to touch it. He doesn’t, equally because he knows it’s impossible and because he suspects it’s far too possible. He suddenly drops his head and straightens at the unmistakable sound of a trumpet in the distance. Its timbre is different this time; the sound lingers in the air long after Sam would have expected it to fade away. He soundlessly eases himself to a stand. His hand is back in his pocket to touch the limestone and the plum pit. Across the crossroad, Crowley is turned toward the direction of the trumpet like a deer frozen between staying and fleeing. A second lingering trumpet call, and when that fades away, Sam can make out a steady shuffle like many, many feet.

The first visual hint is a faint glimmer of light. It appears and winks out for several minutes then is accompanied by a second, then a third. Soon, a small gathering of lights can be seen down the road, approaching quickly. Figures take shape. Humanoid. Tall. Limned, somehow, in faint light. Sam forces his feet to remain in place while the procession grows nearer and nearer. When he glances over, he sees that Crowley has retreated almost into the forest behind him; his eyes glitter from the dimness. Sam focuses again on the procession.

He’s not sure what exactly he expected, but it wasn’t dozens and dozens of people from seemingly all walks of life, shuffling along together like commuters on a subway. Each person has some form of light in their hands; Sam sees candles, flashlights, lanterns, matchsticks, even phones with their screens lit up. All of their faces, Sam realizes, are curiously blank. It takes him a moment to realize that it reminds him of Castiel in those initial days.

That thought lurches him back into why he’s here, and as the crowd pass his spot along the crossroads, he starts to scan the crowd for Castiel. The faces are tilted down, so it’s hard to see details. Every so often, bright eyes flick up to peer at Sam curiously, but no one pauses to ask him what he’s doing.

The procession fills the entire road now, in both directions. It’s a shuffling, seething mass of people, and the longer Sam stands there without seeing Castiel, the more the panic inside his chest is able to grow.

And then, like a sudden moment of calm, there’s a clearing in the procession, and in the midst of the clearing is Castiel. Sam knows him immediately, and it’s not because of the messy, dark hair or the long brown coat, but maybe because of the nature of the pale light sifting from his skin and hair.

Castiel walks at the same shuffling pace, though he has no source of light in his hands. He’s surrounded by people who carry with them an aura of casual power. The woman directly behind Castiel has this aura most strongly. She’s tall, dressed in a suit, hair pulled into a simple bun, expression blank. Sam looks away from her to focus on Castiel again. At that moment, he sees Castiel’s shoulders jerk up ever so slightly; his head rises. The woman says something, and Castiel’s head lowers again, but his eyes are straining to look around him now, and when they fall on Sam, Sam’s heart crashes so hard against his chest that he’s momentarily winded. It takes him a moment to realize that his feet have started moving. He slides into the road and gently bumps aside two women who are in his way. He keeps going, murmuring apologies while a low buzz starts around him. He can feel many eyes on him, but he focuses on Castiel, who is now staring unabashedly. He steps past a large man, and then he’s there, and he doesn’t notice that the procession has stopped because right now, all he wants is to reach where Castiel stands watching him with wide, wide eyes.

A woman’s voice shouts something nearby. Castiel opens his mouth, and Sam thinks it might be his name, but he can’t tell because at that moment he draws close enough that his hands can grasp Castiel’s arms, and that’s when Castiel shudders apart.

Suddenly Sam isn’t in a dirt road anymore; he’s kneeling in wet snow, shoulders hunched against a shrieking wind that cuts into his core, and there’s a writhing, snarling animal in his arms. Sam’s instinct is to scramble backwards, and he does manage to jerk back before he recognizes that the animal in his arms is a wolf. The memory of a woodcut floods into his mind, and he slams his eyes shut and buries his face in the wolf’s thick ruff, even while it snaps and howls and its teeth slaver inches from Sam’s head.

The world stutters; the wolf releases a pitiful wail; Sam realizes that the dampness spreading across his knees isn’t from wet snow but from a muddy bog. The wolf is gone, and in its place is a massive snake. Its yellows eyes are blank and thoughtless, and the fangs are each as long as Sam’s hand. He crushes the snake to his chest and waits for the fangs to land on him.

Except they don’t because the snake dissolves along with the ground. Sam is left clutching a pulsing spiral of wind and water. He’s immediately drenched, and his feet flail as they uselessly try to find ground again. He’s falling; his hair is whipping above his head; he’ll die the instant he hits the ground.

There’s a sharp bump, but not from falling to his death. Sam is somewhere utterly dark and sweltering, and the space between his arms is flooded with something oozing and red-hot. Magma, he realizes after a moment, and he can feel his skin burning but he doesn’t dare let go, not at this point.

The magma explodes and keeps exploding, and Sam is clutching a livid column with unreal angles and four shifting heads and an oil sheen of pale fire. He wants to open his mouth to scream, but he’s not sure that it’s possible. His entire body feels as if it’s being picked apart atom by atom, and he knows that he’s going to die like this, torn into shreds, and he’s only grateful that the burning has stopped, and all he feels now is a creeping numbness and all he can see is livid white.

And the livid white flicks to black.

And the world goes utterly still and silent.

And Sam thinks that this must be death.

***

Heartbeat.

“Sam.”

Heartbeat. Heartbeat.

“Sam.”

Heartbeat. Inhale. Heartbeat. Exhale.

“ _Sam_.”

Inhale. Exhale. Heartbeat. Sensation on his cheek. Heartbeat.

Eyes cracking open. Light. Sunlight. Morning. Heartbeat. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale inhale—

“You’re alive, Sam.”

Heartbeat heartbeat heartbeatheartheatheartbeat—

“Sam, you’re okay. You’re okay.”

Dark hair. Blue eyes.

Castiel.

Exhale.

Eyes sliding shut.

The rest of the world filters in slowly from there. Sam takes his time picking through it. He’s sitting slumped against something. His hands are folded in his lap. Warmth spills over his face. A presence is nearby, and a hand is hovering over his cheek. Right. Castiel. And apparently, Sam hasn’t died. That’s comforting to know.

“Sam?”

“Hm,” Sam hums, and opens his eyes again obligingly. He takes in Castiel kneeling beside him and feels his face split into a grin. “Hi,” he says.

“Hello.” Castiel’s expression softens in return, and the hand hovering by Sam’s cheek finally comes to rest on his shoulder. “You frightened me.”

Sam hums again in acknowledgment. His attention shifts to the soft dirt under his hands and the tall prairie grasses visible past Castiel. Sam frowns. “Something happened,” he says.

“Yes.” Castiel sounds on the verge of laughing. “Something definitely happened.”

Sam’s eyes widen and he jerks forward, one hand thoughtlessly coming up to grip Castiel’s hand on his shoulder. “I found you,” he says breathlessly. “I found you where the Tam Lin story said I would, and I hung on and…” He twists around. He had been leaning against a solitary tree in a wide plain. The prairie grass extends all around him. No flowers; no trees; no road full of people. The air is slightly dry but otherwise seems normal, and the sun overhead is the proper distance and warmth. Sam turns to Castiel again. “Where are we?”

“South Dakota,” Castiel says. There’s a definite smile in his voice.

“Real South Dakota? What happened to Carterhaugh?”

Castiel’s hesitates, shifting his weight, before he says in a deliberate voice, “You happened, honestly.”

“What?”

“When you claimed me in the middle of a tithe offering. Which was very foolish of you, I hope you know that.”

“No I—“ Sam frowns. “I was following the story. That was why you gave me the book, right? So I’d know what to do.”

Castiel’s expression grows slightly pained. He pulls his hand from Sam and lowers himself into a sit beside him. Their arms press together. Sam has to resist the urge to let his head drop onto Castiel’s shoulder.

“I…was not thinking clearly at that point,” Castiel says. “It seemed like the right thing to give you.”

“I’m glad you did.”

Castiel glances over. He sighs. “I didn’t intend for you to come back and risk yourself so…so utterly.” His voice grows stern. “Do you really have any idea what you did back there?”

“Stopped you from being sacrificed to ancient monsters, if Crowley was right at all.”

“Crowley—oh.” Castiel’s shoulders slump. “Of course.”

Sam laughs without being able to help it. “You don’t need to look so down.”

“I don’t know why I let him guide you out,” Castiel murmurs.

“Hey, it’s okay.” Sam leans against him. “Things are fine.” He purses his lips. “Unless they aren’t?” He glances around. “To be honest, I’d expect us to be in angel jail by now?”

“That’s not how it works,” Castiel sighs. “Like I said, you stepped in and you claimed the tithe—me. You held onto me. And after that, there wasn’t much Naomi could have done. Her authority only extends so far, and if my father or any of the archangels had dispute, they didn’t appear to argue. So. There was nothing but to let us leave.”

“Don’t remember that part,” Sam admits.

“No, I had to carry you.”

“Oh.” Sam can feel his face heat up, but he doubts Castiel can see. He runs a hand through his hair, thinking. “What happened with the leviathan?” he asks.

“Well, they didn’t receive their tithe.” Castiel’s shoulders drop. “There will be consequences to that one.”

Sam’s gut flips. “Did I just…like, start a war or something?”

“A war? No.” Castiel tilts his head. “A disruption. Naomi will no doubt find a way to settle things out; she’s skilled at that.”

“Is she going to come after you?”

Castiel shakes his head. “Like I said, you claimed me. I’m out of her hands. I’m…well, I suppose I’ve been out of heaven’s hands for a long time.”

“Wait, can you go back?” Sam’s eyes widen. “Are you still, you know, an angel?”

“I’m not sure,” Castiel says. “My grace is still here; I know that. As for heaven, well, I probably shouldn’t go there if I want to stay alive.”

“I’m sorry,” Sam murmurs.

“Don’t be,” Castiel says firmly. “Don’t be sorry for any of it.”

“You sure?” Sam screws up his face. “Any of it? Because I’m pretty sure I stepped over a few lines…you know. That last night.” Castiel stares at him blankly. “On the fence.”

“Oh.” Castiel’s expression clears. His face gains a tinge of pink. “Oh, no, you don’t need to apologize for that, either. That was me, I…” He trails off, seems to gather his words. “I was frightened. I was afraid that if we...if heaven found out that I’d come to care for a human, they would have used you.” Castiel peers at Sam. “They’ve done it before.”

“Before?”

“It’s how they subdued me after I ki—“ He stops suddenly.

“Killed the other angel?” Castiel blinks. “Crowley, again.”

“Ah.” Castiel inhales. “Yes. After I killed Ion. Um. They took the soul Anael and I had been trying to save and they…they threatened to hurt him. I surrendered. And when I had, they destroyed the soul anyway, and they shattered his heaven, and they trapped me in what was left.”

Sam stares in silent horror. “The _hell_ ,” he says. “That’s—“

“It’s how heaven operates,” Castiel says in a grim voice. “I didn’t want something like that to happen for a second time. So I sent you away.”

“Right,” Sam exhales. He shifts his legs, dragging them up so he can rest his folded arms on his knees. “I…thanks, then.”

Castiel doesn’t respond verbally, just presses against Sam. Sam presses back.

“Are you feeling alright?” Castiel asks softly.

“Yeah.” Sam lifts a hand and flexes it, watching the tendons work. He wonders how badly he was damaged, and how long Castiel spent healing him. He decides that’s a question for later. And then he registers that he just assumed there would be a later. “What now?” Sam asks, peering at Castiel. “You’re stuck on earth.”

“Earth is much larger and much more interesting than where I was before,” Castiel says, smiling softly at the sky. “I’ll be fine, I think.”

Sam nods. “If you need somewhere to go I…” He shrugs. “California is nice.”

Castiel has shifted his attention to Sam. “The last time I was in California must have been a few hundred years ago.”

Sam laughs. “It’s probably changed since then.” He shrugs one shoulder. “It’s going to take me another few weeks to get there, though.”

“May I accompany you?”

“Well.” Sam blinks. “I mean, yeah, of course. I’d love that.”

“Good.” Castiel searches Sam’s face then, in a single gentle motion, leans forward to place a chaste kiss on his mouth. Castiel pulls back and examines Sam’s expression. He must like what he sees because he grins and starts to shift to a stand. But before he can make it, Sam’s hand darts up and grasps Castiel’s coat collar, and he drags Castiel back down for a proper kiss, and Castiel tastes like the banked embers of a white fire. When they pull apart, Castiel looks happily startled and Sam’s heart is threatening to burst open.

“Come on,” Sam says. He pushes himself to a stand. “We should find a road.”

“I think there’s something in that direction,” Castiel says, waving northward and still looking like he’s trying to process something. Sam grins and starts moving, and that’s when he registers the lump in his right pocket. He pauses to pull out the chunk of limestone, and then the dried plum pit.

“Ah,” Castiel says, and Sam looks up to see Castiel examining the items. “Good idea bringing those; I’m sure it helped.”

“Thanks, I guess.” Sam turns the limestone, watching the sunlight catch on tiny facets. “What’s going to happen to that place?”

“Hard to say. I expect it will keep floating around Carterhaugh. Maybe someone else will find it.”

“I hope they do,” Sam murmurs, examining the dark streak on the plum pit. “I hope they make a good place out of it.”

Sam exhales hard and slips the limestone and plum pit back into his pocket. And as he does, he thinks he catches a sudden blur of bright color in the distance, like a field of lilacs, or a red brick house surrounded by a skirt of a garden full of roses. But he turns his head and it’s just prairie, and Castiel is waiting with his hand outstretched, so Sam accepts it, and together he and Castiel start to walk toward the road.


End file.
